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V 


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~A 


THE    HAWTHORN    TREE 


AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 


NATHAN   HASKELL   DOLE 


NEW  YORK :  46  EAST  i4TH  STREET 
THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   &   COMPANY 
BOSTON :  100  PURCHASE  STREET 


COPYRIGHT 
T.  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 

1895 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  publishers  of  The  Century,  Harper's 
Weekly,  The  Independent,  The  Outlook,  The  Congregation- 
alist,  The  New  England  Magazine,  Donahoe's  Monthly, 
Life,  etc.,  etc.,  for  permission  to  include  various  poems  in 
this  volume  •  ....... 


To 
H.  B.  D. 


M189008 


CONTENTS 


SONGS 

Page 

THE  HAWTHORN  TREE         .....          •  •           3 

LOVE  AND   MAYTIME             *          .          .          .          .          .  .           4 

THE  GRANITE  CLIFF  .           .          .          ...          .  .           5 

THE  OLD,   OLD   STORY          .          .          .          ...  .           5 

THE  CLOSE  OF  A  RAINY   DAY     .           .          .          .          .  .           6 

MY  JOY       .           .           .,.           ..          •          .          .  .           7 

WILD  ROSES      .       ...       .       .       .       .       .  .       8 

ARNE'S  SONG     .        .        .       .        .       .  .     .'       .  .        9 

ON  OGUNQUIT  BEACH        ....       .  ''".  .  .  .      IO 

THE  BROOK    .    .  "   .    .    .    .«    .    .  .  .    n 

THE  SERENADERS    .     .         ,    .    .    .  -13 

SERENADE  —  I.  .     .....     .     ,  •    I3 

SERENADE  —  II.    "  V.     .     .     .     .     .     .  •    14 

SONG   OF  THE   LONE   BIRD              .....  ,      .         15 

AUF  WIEDERSEHEN    .           .          ».          .^  »I 


Contents 

Page 

STILL   MY  HEART  IS  THINE 1 6 

LOVE'S  ASSURANCE 1 8 

ALL  THE  BLOSSOMS  GREET   HER 1 9 

IN  MAY  MY   DREAM  CAME  TRUE 2O 

FERN   GHOSTS 21 

A  FLIGHT    OF   HOURS 22 

THE  OLD   STONE  WALL 22 

DREAM   MUSIC 23 

CONWAY  MEADOWS 25 

SUNSET 25 

SPRING   RAPTURE 26 

SUMMER   EVENING 2J 

SUMMER   FLOWERS 28 

AUTUMN  IS  QUEEN 28 

AUTUMN  MORNING 29 

FORETASTE  OF  WINTER 30 

AUTUMN   SONG 3O 

THE  LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPER .3! 

SONGS   OF  MAIZE 33 

VERS  DE  SOCIETE 

THE  POVERTY  PARTY 39 

UNDER  THE  AWNING            «          , 40 

LONG  AGO ...           a 42 

vi 


Contents  • 

Page 
SHELLING  PEAS .  .  i          .        *•  .  .  .          .        43 

CONFESSION .46 

THE   BEAU    OF  THE   TOWN.  »          .  »  •  »  .        46 

THE  PEALING   OF  THE   BELL          .  .  .  .  .48 

BLOWING   BUBBLES 50 

AMATEUR   PHOTOGRAPHY 53 

SPEAKING   FEATURES 55 

SCHERZO 56 

MEMORIES 56 

HAREBELLS *  •         5^ 

THE   SWALLOW 57 

THE   BALTIMORE   ORIOLE     .  .  .  .  -,  .  58 

MOONSHINE          .  .  .  .  .  .  ...         59 

ON   THE   STREET  .  .          V          .  .  .  .  .         60 

A  CAMEO .          «          ,  .        62 

LOVE'S  FIRE      .        .       ,        .        .        ,       ,        .        .      63 
LARKS  AND  NIGHTINGALES        .       .       .       .       .     '  .      64 

TO   CHLOE  .  .          •          .          .  .  ,       -   +          -65 

ON   RETURNING  A  BORROWED   RING    .  .          .•         .  .        66 

SONNETS 

IN  THE  OLD  COUNTRY  CHURCH Jl 

RUSSIA         .  ...'.,          .          .          .  .72 

vii 


Contents? 

Page 

SIBERIA 73 

TO  AN   IMPERILLED    TRAVELLER 74 

IN   THE  WILDERNESS 74 

SORROWS 75 

MIDSUMMER  NOON 76 

THE  TOMB  OF  TIME 77 

QUESTIONINGS 79 

^OLIAN   HARP  TONES 8 1 

SAVONAROLA,    1498 8 1 

ELEGY 82 

THE  DREAMERS 84 

BEETHOVEN 85 

THE  STORKS 86 

THE  REIGN  OF  SATURN 87 

AT  MIDNIGHT'S  MYSTIC  HOUR 89 

A  PAGAN   SONNET 90 

EVENING 91 

IN  A  CANOE 91 

THE  STORM          .           , 93 

BREEZES 93 

THE  NETHERLAND   MARTYRS,    1535 94 

SPANISH   SONNETS 96 

PETRARCA  DE  SENECTUTE  SUA IO2 

THE    RIVER 103 


Vlll 


Contents! 

Page 

PROPHECIES         .          .          .          .          .          •          •          »          •      104 
HERE  AND  THERE       .          .  ,        ..        ....«•      IO4 

IN  MORE  SERIOUS  MOOD 

A  RUSSIAN  FANTASY ICX) 

SUNSET  FANCIES 109 

THE  PALACE  OF  PLEASURE 112 

ROCKY  NOOK 114 

FROM  A  BALCONY Il6 

AURORA  BOREALIS 117 

TWO   SUNSETS  .  •'          •  •  .  •  •  •  •II7 

TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  NUN        .  lip 

PERVERTED        .          '.  .  .  .  .  •  .  .       122 

THE   SHEPHERDS        .  i  .  '*        .  •  .  .  .122 

FALLEN  PETALS       .        •  .  .  •  •  •  .126 

OFF  GLOUCESTER    .        .  .  .  .  .  .  '  .     127 

GLOWING  STARS 127 

DISCOURAGEMENT    .-•  •  •  •  •  •  .128 

"AS  YESTERDAY"  .        •  •  •  •  •  •  •     129 

IN  THE  PARK         .       .  .  .  ,  •  .  .     130 

ALAN'S  TWO  WINGS.        .  .  ^r.  .  .  .  .130 

IF  WE  WERE  TO  DIE  TOGETHER        .  .  .  .  .       13! 

THE  BROKEN  VOW  .  .  .  .          .  .  .      13! 

ix 


Contents 

Page 
THE  HARMONY  DIVINE 133 

THE   HEART      .........       134 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  SUNSET  IN  THE  ADIRONDACK^       .           .134 
PEACE 135 

AT  MIDNIGHT  BY  THE  SEA 135 

THE  ABBE'S  DREAM        .......  137 

THE  DEATH  OF  AVRAHAM    .  .       »        »       .        .        .138 

PROPHETS       .        .       .        ,       .,,'-,'.        .        .  141 

A  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ANTHONY               .  143 

AN  AUTUMN  FRUIT.        .        .        .        .       »       .        .  146 

THE  HEROES  OF  CUTTYHUNK  .        .        ,        .     A:;«.r     .  150 


THE   HAWTHORN   TREE 

AT  the  edge  of  the  hedge  is  a  Hawthorn  Tree, 
And  its  blossoms  are  sweet  as  sweet  can  be, 
And  the  bees  are  humming  there  all  the  day, 
And  these  are  the  words  that  I  hear  them  say  :  — 
Sweet,  sweet  is  the  Hawthorn  Tree  ! 

All  the  breezes  that  breathe  o'er  those  blossoms  rare 
A  burden  of  perfume  happily  bear ; 
And  the  songsters  revel  there  all  day  long, 
And  these  are  the  words  of  their  merry  song  :  — 
Sweet,  sweet  is  the  Hawthorn  Tree  ! 

And  a  maid  and  her  lover  wander  by 
As  the  twilight  glories  fade  and  die ; 
And  they  pause  'neath  the  fragrant  boughs  to  rest, 
And  above  them  sways  the  robin's  nest :  — 
Sweet,  sweet  is  the  Hawthorn  Tree  ! 

We  too,  they  whisper,  shall  soon  build  a  home 
'Neath  the  azure  arch  of  the  infinite  dome ; 
And  we,  all  the  day,  shall  sing  like  the  birds, 
But  with  deeper  meaning  in  music  and  words  :  — 
Sweet,  sweet  is  the  Hawthorn  Tree  ! 


LOVE   AND   MAYTIME 

E'VE,  gentle  Love,  I  am  weary  of  waiting  ! 
Why  hast  thou  lingered  so  long  on  the  way  ? 
Birds  mid  the  boskage  are  wooing  and  mating. 
It  is  May  ! 

Cold  was  the  winter  with  snow-plumy  pinions, 

Holding  our  hearts  in  his  insolent  sway. 
Now  he  has  gone  to  his  icy  dominions. 
It  is  May  ! 

Brooks  down  the  hillsides  are  leaping  and  singing ;  - 

What  makes  their  laughter  so  rollicking  gay? 
Why  are  the  hedges  with  merriment  ringing  ? 
It  is  May ! 

Love,  gentle  Love,  I  would  welcome  thee  gladly, 

Yet  far  aloof  from  my  roof  thou  dost  stray. 
I  cannot  sing,  for  my  song  would  sound  sadly. 
It  is  May  ! 

Come,  gentle  Love,  bring  me  joy  without  measure, 

Make  me  thy  debtor  this  jubilant  day  ! 
Here  is  my  heart  in  exchange  for  thy  treasure. 
It  is  May  !     It  is  May  ! 


THE   GRANITE   CLIFF 

ON  the  granite  cliff  we  stand, 
As  the  sun  is  sinking  slow ; 
What  a  wondrous  purple  glow 
Consecrates  the  sea  and  land  ! 

Sails  upon  the  changing  bay, 
Trees  upon  the  steadfast  hills, 
Catch  the  glory  as  it  thrills 

From  the  arbiter  of  day. 

As  the  glory  fades  and  dies 
On  the  granite  cliff  we  stand, 
Breathless,  speechless,  hand  in  hand, 

Love-light  kindled  in  our  eyes. 

Is  our  love  like  yonder  glow 
Only  for  a  moment's  grace  ? 
Will  it  fade  and  leave  no  trace 

Save  the  gray  clouds  wan  and  low? 

THE   OLD,  OLD   STORY 

NO  wind  is  stirring, 
There  moves  no  leaf; 
A  bird  forsaken 

Pours  forth  her  grief. 


The  clouds  hang  heavy 
And  darkly  lower ; 

The  rain-drops  patter 
On  grass  and  flower. 

Beneath  the  maple 
Beyond  the  glade, 

There  come  for  shelter 
A  youth  and  maid. 

His  arm  is  around  her, 
He  holds  her  hands ; 

And  what  he  whispers 
The  bird  understands  ! 


THE   CLOSE   OF  A   RAINY  DAY 

THE  sky  was  dark  and  gloomy; 
We  heard  the  sound  of  the  rain 
Dripping  from  eaves  and  tossing  leaves 
And  driving  against  the  pane. 

The  clouds  hung  low  o'er  the  ocean, 

The  ocean  gray  and  wan, 
Where  one  lone  sail  before  the  gale 

Like  a  spirit  was  driven  on. 


The  screaming  sea-fowl  hovered 

Above  the  boiling  main, 
And  flapped  wide  wings  in  narrowing  rings, 

Seeking  for  rest  in  vain. 

The  sky  grew  wilder  and  darker, 

Darker  and  wilder  the  sea, 
And  night  with  her  dusky  pinions 

Swept  down  in  stormy  glee. 

Then  lo !  from  the  western  heaven 

The  veil  was  rent  in  twain, 
And  a  flood  of  light  and  glory 

Spread  over  the  heaving  main. 

It  changed  the  wave-beat  islands 

To  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
And  the  far-off  sail  like  a  spirit 

Seemed  vanishing  into  rest. 


MY  JOY 


MY  joy  is  like  a  sparkling  stream 
That  flows  through  flowery  meadows, 
Whose  waters  here  with  sunlight  gleam, 
And  here  are  peaceful  as  a  dream, 
Beneath  the  cooling  shadows. 


My  joy  is  like  a  wanton  stream 

Without  a  note  of  sadness, 
And  what  care  I  if  shallow  seem 
The  sunny  waves  that  dance  and  gleam 

And  sing  their  songs  of  gladness? 


WILD   ROSES 


O'ER  the  wild-rose  bush 
Humming-birds  hover, 
Butterflies  poise  on  the  trembling  leaves; 
Delicate  petals, 
Parting,  discover 
Yellow-thighed  honey-bees, —  dainty  thieves! 

By  the  wild-rose  bush 

Stands  a  fair  maiden, 

Loving  the  flowers  with  rapturous  eyes; 

Humming-birds  vanish, 

Bees,  honey  laden, 

Dart  away  swiftly,  forsaking  their  prize. 

Down  the  cool  wood-path, 

Where  the  lane  closes, 

Shaded  by  maples,  rippling  with  song, 


8 


Comes  the  fair  maiden, 

Laden  with  roses  — 

Bright  blooming  roses  to  maidens  belong ! 


ARNE'S  SONG 


T)EYOND  the  pine-topt  hills 
D     My  eager  feet  would  wander; 
What  dreams  my  spirit  fills 
Of  happy  regions  yonder ! 
I  see  the  winged  clouds  float  by; 
They  sometimes  rest  upon  the  hills, 

Upon  the  pine-topt  hills, 
And  then  they  rise  and  fly 
Beyond  the  pine-topt  hills. 

Beyond  the  pine-topt  hills 

The  clouds  I  fain  would  follow. 
Oh,  how  my  bosom  thrills 

To  see  the  darting  swallow! 
I  would  delight  to  leave  my  herds 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  hills, 

Beneath  the  pine-topt  hills, 
And  wander  freely  as  the  birds 
Beyond  the  pine-topt  hills. 


"  Beyond  the  pine-topt  hills, 

Come,  brother,"  sing  the  breezes; 
"For  flesh  obeys  what  spirit  wills, 
And  youth  has  what  it  pleases !  " 
"Come,  brother,"  says  the  golden  sun, 
And  sinks  behind  the  shadowy  hills, 

Behind  the  pine-topt  hills, 
And  stars  at  night  pass  one  by  one 
Beyond  the  pine-topt  hills. 


ON    OGUNQUIT   BEACH 

THE  restless  tide  creeps  up  the  sands; 
Like  vanishing  clouds  the  ships  sail  by, 
In  eager  haste  toward  beckoning  lands 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea  they  fly. 
And  standing  on  the  idle  shore 

We  watch  the  sea,  we  watch  the  sky, 
Changeless  and  changing  evermore  — 
We  two  alone,  my  love  and  I. 

Our  thoughts  are  deep,  too  deep  for  words :  — 

We  only  with  exultant  eyes 
Follow  the  ships  which,  like  great  birds, 

Will  proudly  sail  'neath  richer  skies. 

10 


We  two  would  wander  far  away, 
Where  jocund  summer  never  dies, 

Where  Love  himself,  each  golden  day, 
Holds  in  his  hand  some  new  surprise. 


THE   BROOK 


ALL  the  dreary  winter  long, 
Heeding  not  the  ice  and  snow, 
Sang  the  brook  his  happy  song, 

Hushed  and  low :  — 
"Spring's  advancing; 

Winter  goes; 
Sunbeams  glancing 
Melt  the  snows. 
Airs  entrancing 
South  wind  blows; 
Brooklet  knows ! " 

Tinkling  like  a  crystal  bell 

Rung  by  fairies  underground, 
With  a  sweet  mysterious  spell 

Did  it  sound:  — 
"Spring  returning; 

Joy  is  near; 
Sweet  is  yearning; 


II 


Dead  is  fear; 
Hope  is  burning 
All  the  year ! 
Spring  is  here ! " 

And  the  willows  cold  and  gray, 

Leaning  o'er  the  ice-bound  stream, 
Heard  its  singing  every  day 

In  a  dream :  — 
"  Pussy  willows, 
Sound  asleep, 
Wrapt  in  pillows, 

Warm  and  deep. 
Life  in  billows; 
Feel  it  leap ! 
Can  you  sleep?" 

From  the  ground  once  brown  and  bare 

Forth  the  grass  begins  to  look. 
Soft  and  fragrant  is  the  air; 

Hear  the  brook :  — 
"  Birds  are  singing 

Merry  glees; 
Boughs  are  swinging, 

Mild  the  breeze; 
Flowers  are  springing 
On  the  leas;  — 
Just  see  these ! " 


12 


THE   SERENADERS 

THE  night  wind  sleeps,  the  leaves  are  still, 
The  air  is  rich  with  breath  of  flowers; 
The  moonlight  creeps  along  the  hill, — 
The  waning  moon  of  midnight  hours. 

We  wake  the  night  with  voice  of  song, 
Beneath  the  windows  of  the  fair; 

The  world  is  bright,  and  love  is  long, 
And  youthful  hearts  are  free  of  care ! 


SERENADE 

THE  hour  is  late,  and  the  moon 
Hangs  faint  and  low  o'er  the  hill, 
The  great  white  stars  in  the  sky 
Are  shining  calm  and  still. 

The  houses  and  the  street 
Are  dark  and  silent  and  lone; 

But  one  light  gleams  through  the  night  — 
My  lady  is  watching  —  my  own ! 

I  lean  on  the  wicket  gate, 
And  silently  breathe  a  prayer, 

That  the  angels  of  the  night 
May  guard  the  dear  one  there. 

13 


SERENADE 


'  'HT^IS  evening,  and  the  month  is  June  ! 
X       Like  a  golden  shield  the  moon 
Hangs  above  the  dark  blue  deep; 
Weary  winds  are  lulled  to  sleep; 
Solemnly  the  breakers  roar 
On  the  shadowy  rock  -bound  shore:  — 
Come  with  me  ! 

Above  us  tranquil  planets  shine 
With  a  witchery  divine, 
And  the  night's  mysterious  calm 
Seems  to  pour  a  peaceful  balm 
Over  all  the  sea  and  land  :  — 
Come,  my  maiden,  hand  in  hand, 
Come  with  me  ! 

The  languid  breeze,  with  dewy  wings, 
Sweet  perfume  of  roses  brings;     > 
All  the  air  is  rich  with  flowers 
Blooming  in  the  mild  night  hours; 
All  around,  below,  above, 
Dreams  a  rapturous  dream  of  love  :  — 
Come  with  me  ! 


SONG   TO   THE   LONE   BIRD 

LONELY  bird  upon  the  tree, 
(Ah,  the  tree  has  not  a  leaf !) 
Thou  dost  sing  so  mournfully, 
Tell  me  why  thy  grief ! 

Lonely  bird  upon  the  tree, 
(Ah,  the  tree  is  stript  and  bare  !) 
Comes  no  answer  back  to  thee 
Through  the  frosty  air? 

Lonely  bird  upon  the  tree, 
(Ah,  the  leafless  tree  is  dead !) 
Hast  thou  but  a  memory? 
Has  thy  darling  fled? 

Lonely  bird  upon  the  tree, 
(Ah,  the  tree  will  fall  erelong !) 
All  the  meaning  teach  to  me 
Of  thy  plaintive  song ! 

AUF  WIEDERSEHEN 

DIE  Nacht  enteilt ;  der  Mond  verblasst; 

Im  Morgenro?  die  Wolken  gehen  ; 
Die  goltfne  Stuntf  flieht  ohne  Rast :  — 

"  Auf  baldiges  Wiedersehen  !  " 


Dock  muss  ich  schetden,  liebes  Herz  ! 

Niemand  kann  seinem  Loos  entgehen; 
Einen  letzten  Kuss  mit  sussem  Schmerz 

Und  dann:  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  /  " 

The  hour  is  late;  low  hangs  the  moon; 

The  stars  are  fading  from  the  sky; 
The  golden  night  has  sped  too  soon :  — 

How  can  I  say,  "Good  bye?" 

Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  dearest  Heart ! 

We  may  not  vainly  question  why; 
One  last  embrace  before  we  part, 

And  then,  "  Good  bye,  Good  bye !  " 


STILL   MY   HEART   IS   THINE 

OH,  well  do  I  remember 
How  we  wandered  from  the  hill, 
And  followed  down  the  lonely  path 

Beside  the  singing  rill. 
At  length  we  reached  the  lily  pond 

Above  the  ruined  mill, 
And  there  upon  the  bank  we  sat 
Where  all  was  cool  and  still. 

16 


The  breath  of  lilies  sweet 
Crept  round  our  calm  retreat; 
The  birds  sang  carols  of  love 
And  in  the  branches  above 
We  heard  the  locust  shrill. 
Ah!  Love,  'twas  love  we  found 
In  every  sight  and  sound, 
And  Love  must  have  his  will. 

I  know  not  what  we  whispered, 

Or  if  we  spoke  a  word; 
The  love  song  of  the  universe 

Was  sung  by  every  bird, 
And  joy  was  echoed  in  our  hearts 

At  every  note  we  heard. 
The  music  of  the  waterfall 
The  branches  lightly  stirred. 

The  lilies  so  white  and  pure 
Told  that  love  would  endure 
And  youth  would  ever  stay :  — 
It  seems  but  yesterday  — 
And  years  have  passed  away ! 
Vet  still  thine  eyes  meet  mine, 
I  see  the  lovelight  shine 
As  tho'  it  were  to-day ! 
And  still  my  heart  is  thine. 


LOVE'S  ASSURANCE 

WHENE'ER  I  look  into  thy  calm  gray  eyes 
Thy  love  smiles  to  me  from  their  depths 

serene. 
A  heaven  behind  their  curtain  lies  — 

A  paradise; 

And  there  thy  soul  is  seen, 
My  queen ! 

Whene'er  I  hold  thy  shapely,  firm,  white  hand, 

Its  pressure  accents  what  thy  words  impart, 
Else  were  it  hard  to  understand. 

In  all  the  land 

None  knows  what  to  my  heart 
Thou  art! 

Whene'er  I  walk  in  joyous  thought  alone 

Thou  still  art  with  me,  walking  by  my  side. 
The  silence  hears  the  very  tone 

Whereby  thou'rt  known 
Across  an  ocean  wide, 

My  bride. 

Time  cannot,  distance  cannot,  break  our  bond; 

Here  or  hereafter  thou  art  only  mine; 
If  here  we  part  we  meet  beyond. 

Do  not  despond; 
Our  love  in  worlds  divine 

Shall  shine. 
18 


ALL   THE   BLOSSOMS   GREET   HER 

ALL  the  blossoms  greet  her 
As  she  passes  by; 
Roses  bend  to  meet  her, 

Daisies  nod  and  sigh:  — 
"  She  is  far  above  us, 

No,  she  will  not  care; 

Will  not  stoop  to  love  us  — 

Maiden  pure  and  fair." 

As  she  comes,  the  thrushes, 

Hidden  in  the  tree, 
Break  the  noontide  hushes 

With  their  minstrelsy:  — 
"Will  she  deign  to  hear  us? 

No,  she  will  not  care; 
Will  not  venture  near  us  — 

Maiden  pure  and  fair." 

And  I  wait,  half  hiding, 

In  the  bosky  lane. 
Shall  I  speak,  confiding 

In  a  hope  that's  vain? 
Birds  have  songs  to  sing  to  her, 

Flowers  their  perfumes  bear. 
What  have  I  to  bring  to  her  — 

Maiden  pure  and  fair? 

19 


Now  she  draweth  nearer; 

Roses  crown  her  brow, 
All  the  birds  sing  clearer  — 

They  are  answered  now. 
And  her  gentle  greeting 

Bids  me  not  despair; 
How  my  heart  is  beating ! 

Maiden  pure  and  fair ! 


IN   MAY   MY   DREAM   CAME  TRUE 

I  SAT  by  the  brimming  river; 
Blithe  and  early  was  the  spring; 
The  waters  danced  and  sparkled, 

And  I  heard  the  robins  sing. 
The  south  wind  stirred  the  branches 
Of  the  maples  plumed  with  green, 
And  the  beauty  of  the  springtime 
Filled  with  glory  all  the  scene. 

Along  the  river  margin 

Came  a  maiden  pure  and  fair; 

The  sunlight  like  a  halo 

Touched  her  wayward  golden  hair, 

20 


The  wild  flowers  bent  to  greet  her 
As  her  footsteps  kissed  the  grass, 

The  wood-birds  sang  their  sweetest 
When  they  saw  the  maiden  pass. 

I  sat  by  the  brimming  river 

And  I  watched  its  sunny  gleams; 
Blue  eyes  and  golden  tresses 

Shone  responsive  in  my  dreams. 
A  voice  that  spoke  like  music, 

In  a  tone  my  spirit  knew, 
Awoke  me  from  my  dreaming,  — 

And  in  May  my  dream  came  true. 


FERN   GHOSTS 


UNDER  the  brow  of  Monadnock 
These  ferns  came  up  in  spring, 
Curled  like  the  crook  of  a  shepherd 
Daintily  blossoming. 

Pale,  now,  and  yellow  and  ghost-like 
They  linger  like  dreams  of  the  past, 

They  tell  of  a  radiant  summer 
And  a  love  too  sweet  to  last. 


21 


A   FLIGHT   OF   HOURS 


'T^O-DAY  from  the  south  came  a  flight  of  hours 
X       Of  golden  hours  with  welcome  wings; 

And  where  they  passed  grew  fragrant  flowers, 

And  the  sunbeams  laughed  on  a  thousand  springs. 

The  gnarled  trees  on  the  windy  hill 

Put  forth  a  wonder  of  radiant  white; 
The  meadow,  yesterday  bare  and  still, 

Was  suddenly  filled  with  the  birds'  delight. 

And  maidens  forgot  to  be  shy  and  cold 

When  they  heard  the  birds,  when  they  saw  the 

flowers, 
And  many  a  secret  love  was  told  — 

Because  of  a  flight  of  sunny  hours. 

THE   OLD   STONE   WALL 

ACROSS  the  windy  hill, 
And  down  the  gentle  valley 
Where  the  wind  is  hushed  and  still, 

And  pleasant  waters  dally, 
Marked  by  stains  of  countless  rains, 
Green  moss  and  ivy  clothing  all, 
Stretches  out  my  grandsire's  pride  — 
The  old  stone  wall. 

22 


How  often  when  a  boy, 

When  summer  days  were  sunny, 
I  sat  in  idle  joy 

And  ate  my  bread  and  honey. 
High  o'erhead  the  white  clouds  sped ; 

I  heard  the  black  crows  caw  and  call, 
Ah,  what  a  cooling  shade  it  gave  — 
The  old  stone  wall. 

And  then  one  starry  night 
The  homestead  I  was  leaving, 

And  life  for  me  shone  bright, 

But  my  sweet  lass  was  grieving :  — 

"Do  not  weep,  my  troth  I'll  keep," 
I  said  to  her,  "whate'er  befall." 

And  so  we  kissed  and  parted  by 
The  old  stone  wall. 


DREAM   MUSIC 


AS  one  who  sees  a  vision 
In  the  watches  of  the  night, 
A  dream  of  things  elysian, 
Of  rapturous  delight  — 
As  one  whose  life  ideal 

Comes  forth  serene  and  bright, 


The  unreal  more  than  real 

To  the  quickened  second  sight  — 
Then,  waking,  has  the  yearning 

To  dream  the  dream  again, 
To  know  the  sweet  returning 

Of  the  form  recalled  in  vain; 
So  I  awake  from  my  slumbers 

With  a  vague  unrest  and  pain, 
For  strange  celestial  numbers, 

For  a  song  with  a  weird  refrain. 

It  haunts  me  like  a  spirit 

From  the  vast  halls  of  sleep, 
By  day  I  cannot  hear  it, 

Its  words  I  cannot  keep. 
But  oh!  if -I  might  word  it 

'T  would  make  thee  smile  and  weep, 
With  smiles  that  thou  hadst  heard  it, 

With  tears  for  its  pathos  deep. 
And  when  thou  hearest  the  singing 

Of  the  merriest  birds  in  May, 
Or  the  solemn  church  bells  ringing 

In  minsters  far  away, 
Then  know  that  richer  and  sweeter 

Are  the  words  of  my  roundelay, 
And  its  harmony  completer 

Than  any  that  minstrels  play. 


24 


CONWAY  MEADOWS 

WE  sat  mid  the  bee-haunted  clover; 
The  field  was  dancing  with  light; 
The  wind  sang  under  and  over 
The  bee-haunted  blossoms  of  clover. 
The  wind  is  a  wanton  rover  — 
His  heart  is  free  and  light. 

We  sat  mid  the  blossoming  clover 

With  the  dreamy  stream  at  our  feet, 
And  the  willows  bending  over, 
And  the  lengthening  mountain  shadows 
Came  creeping  across  the  meadows  — 
Dost  thou  remember,  Sweet? 


SUNSET 


setting  sun 
O'er  cloud  and  hill 
His  golden  beams  is  flinging; 
The  day  is  done, 

The  mill  is  still, 
The  robins  all  are  singing. 

Oh,  how  their  bosoms  thrill, 
And  how  the  woods  are  ringing ! 


I  sit  alone, 

My  window  near, 
Alone  I  sit,  half  dreaming; 
The  birds  have  flown, 

The  stars  appear, 
I  see  the  mill-pond  gleaming; 

The  Past  is  with  me  here, 
My  eyes  with  tears  are  streaming. 


SPRING  RAPTURE 

THE  air  is  stirred 
By  winnowing  wings, 
And  every  bird 

Exulting  sings; 
Robin  and  jay 

With  eager  throats 
Bring  in  the  day 
With  welcome  notes. 

Upon  the  sky 

Soft  cloudlets  sleep, 

And  swallows  fly 
From  deep  to  deep; 

The  wild  geese  cry 
In  dizzy  heights 

26 


And  prophesy 

The  spring's  delights. 

The  grass  grows  green 

On  field  and  hill, 
And  buds  are  seen 

With  life  to  thrill. 
When  everything 

Is  full  of  cheer 
I  too  must  sing, 

Tho'  no  one  hear. 


SUMMER   EVENING 


sky  is  aglow  with  colors  untold, 
_       With  a  triumph  of  crimson  and  opal  and  gold, 
And  wavering  curtains  woven  of  fire 
Are  hung  o'er  the  portals  of  Day's  Desire. 
The  sun  goes  to  rest  in  his  western  halls 
And  over  the  world  the  twilight  falls. 

The  breezes  sleep  on  the  grassy  pond, 

And  shadows  rove  thro'  the  grove  beyond; 

The  robins  carol  in  rapture  of  love, 

And  the  martins  dart  thro'  the  splendor  above. 

Oh  twilight  marvel  !  mysterious  hour  ! 

Our  hearts  are  swayed  like  the  sea  by  thy  power  ! 

27 


SUMMER  FLOWERS 

OH  summer  flowers,  sweet  summer  flowers, 
Too  soon  ye  fade  away; 
Ye  cannot  hold  the  flying  hours 
That  make  your  little  day. 

Oh  summer  flowers,  fair  summer  flowers, 
Laugh  while  the  skies  are  bright; 

And  sip  the  rich,  refreshing  showers 
That  cool  the  sultry  night. 

Oh  summer  flowers,  gay  summer  flowers, 

Be  fragrant  while  ye  may; 
Sweet  while  ye  last  are  woodland  bowers, 

But  soon  ye  fade  away. 


AUTUMN   IS   QUEEN 

'"T^HERE  is  a  lane  behind  the  hill 

X       That  leads  to  woodlands  hushed  and  still. 
The  mossy  path,  o'er-trailed  with  vines, 
Slopes  gently  down  'neath  murmuring  pines. 
Its  shady  haunts  are  green  with  ferns, 
While  now  the  brilliant  maple  burns. 
The  asters  and  the  goldenrod 
In  royal  colors  proudly  nod. 

28 


The  barberry  flaunts  its  ruddy  fire, 
Red  jewels  swing  from  every  brier. 
Great  purple  grapes  in  clusters  hang 
Where  late  the  wood-thrush  sweetly  sang. 
The  Autumn,  with  her  wand  of  gold, 
Will  now  her  yearly  revel  hold ! 

AUTUMN   MORNING 

THE  morning  air  is  chill  with  rain, 
The  sky  is  clouded  o'er, 
The  foamy  billows  dash  in  vain 
Upon  the  reef-bound  shore. 

The  ships  sail  on  across  the  bay, 

Careening  in  the  wind; 
How  brave  and  full  of  hope  are  they 

To  leave  the  port  behind ! 

The  fisher,  in  his  tossing  boat, 

Heeds  not  the  ocean  wild; 
Wrapt  snugly  in  his  tarry  coat 

He  dreams  of  wife  and  child. 

But  I  sit  lone  upon  the  sands 
And  watch  the  climbing  tide; 

I  long  to  fly  to  distant  lands, 
Across  the  waters  wide. 


FORETASTE   OF   WINTER 

THERE'S  a  gleam  of  frost  on  the  meadow, 
And  snow  on  the  hill  beyond, 
And  lightly,  like  a  shadow, 

Lies  the  feathery  ice  on  the  pond. 

There's  a  chill  in  the  breath  of  morning, 

A  chill  in  the  quiet  of  noon, 
And  from  cold  gray  clouds,  like  a  warning 

Of  snow,  falls  the  call  of  the  loon. 


AUTUMN   SONG 

THE  leaves  fall  one  by  one, 
Though  the  wind  is  dead  and  still, 
The  gray  clouds  hide  the  sun, 
And  the  autumn  air  is  chill. 

But  what  care  you  and  I,  my  love, 

For  all  the  changing  weather? 
The  darkest  clouds  may  fly,  my  love, 
If  we  are  still  together. 

The  birds  to  the  South  have  flown, 

And  their  songs  have  ceased  in  the  land, 

Silent  —  and  bare  —  and  lone 
The  trees  of  the  orchard  stand. 

30 


But  what  care  you  and  I,  sweetheart, 
And  why  should  moods  annoy  us  ? 

The  darkest  days  will  fly,  sweetheart, 
For  our  hearts  are  always  joyous. 

The  waves  along  the  shore 

Are  breaking  upon  the  rocks, 
With  melancholy  roar, 

And  despair  as  of  battle  shocks. 

But  what  care  you  and  I,  my  love, 
For  waves  and  gloomy  weather  ? 
The  darkest  storms  will  fly,  my  love, 
And  leave  our  hearts  together. 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPER 

ON  a  barren  isle  in  the  midmost  main, 
Where  the  waves  chant  ever  their  wild  refrain, 
Uncheered  by  a  tree  or  a  single  flower, 
Rises  aloft  my  lonely  tower. 

Afar  rolls  the  sea,  till  it  touches  the  sky; 
Afar  the  white-winged  ships  sail  by; 
They  rise  and  fall  on  the  restless  swell, 
And  where  they  come  from  who  can  tell? 

31 


By  day  they  mark  my  lonely  isle 
By  the  stately  height  of  my  granite  pile; 
And  at  night  they  see  the  friendly  gleam 
Of  my  yellow  light  o'er  the  billows  stream. 

Winter  and  summer,  year  on  year, 

Have  I  dwelt  on  this  desert  island  drear; 

My  mate  and  I  have  stood  by  the  tower, 

And  watched  through  the  long  nights,  hour  by  hour. 

Storms  have  swept  from  the  lowering  east, 
The  ocean  has  raged  like  a  maddened  beast, 
Treacherous  fogs  have  gathered  around, 
And  deadened  the  alarm  bell's  mournful  sound. 


Still  by  the  lighthouse  have  I  staid, 
And  when  danger  pressed  my  heart  has  prayed, 
Knowing  full  well  that  the  Father's  hand 
Rules  at  sea  and  rules  on  the  land. 

But  ah !  when  summer  days  have  smiled 
I  have  longed  for  the  voice  of  wife  and  child; 
But  never  a  wife  or  child  have  I, 
And  a  lonely  man  I  shall  live  and  die. 


SONGS  OF   MAIZE 


OH,  sing  of  the  corn  — 
Of  the  yellow  Maize, 
How  it  bends  and  sways 
In  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Tall  and  noble,  with  tapering  spear, 
Curling  leaf  and  golden  ear; 

O'er  the  length  and  breadth  of  this  bountiful  land, 
Beautiful  gift  of  the  Father's  hand. 

Fountain  of  blessings,  Maize,  to  thee ! 
Sing  we,  bring  we  our  lays  to  thee ! 
Joyous  and  eloquent  praise  to  thee ! 
Paeans  of  triumph  we  raise  to  thee ! 
Hail  to  the  corn ! 

n 

Thou  wert  here  to  welcome  the  Pilgrim  band 

Tost  by  the  tempest  and  wearied  sore, 
In  that  tiny  bark  by  Courage  manned, 

Guided  by  Fate  to  an  unknown  shore. 
When  the  Winter  raged  in  his  Arctic  strength 

And  bowed  the  forests  with  icy  blasts, 
And  their  scanty  stores  were  spent  at  length, 

And   Death  was    the    meed    of    their   bitter 
fasts  — 

33 


Then  kernel  by  kernel  the  kind  corn  parched 

And  burst  from  yellow  to  shell-like  white, 

And  under  the  wintry  sky  that  arched 

Like  doom  above  them,  they  praised  God's 
might. 

in 

Cast  without  care 

In  rudest  rows, 
Wherever  the  share 

Thro'  the  clearing  goes, 
Tall  and  fair 

The  bright  corn  grows. 

Hew  the  trees  down ! 

A  cabin  build ! 
Skies  smile  or  frown, 

Thy  land  is  tilled, 
And  the  mould  rich  and  brown 

With  the  Maize  is  filled! 


IV 

Skies  grow  gray; 
Short  the  day; 
With  the  sickle  reap  away  f 
Reap  the  corn; 

34 


Bind  in  sheaves 
Ears  and  leaves; 

Rich  the  harvest  man  receives; 

It  is  Plenty's  overflowing  horn! 

Ripe  and  dry, 

Pile  it  high, 
Now  the  creaking  wain  goes  by 

To  the  barn ! 

Fields  once  fair 

Now  are  bare, 
Only  stubble  lingers  there ! 

On  the  floor, 

More  and  more, 
Bustling  with  the  rustling  store, 

Lay  the  corn ! 

Splendid  gain ! 

Golden  grain 

Flowing  from  the  loaded  wain; 
It  is  Plenty's  overflowing  horn! 


Hither!  merry  men  and  maids! 

Come  at  even,  young  and  single ! 
Eyes  will  sparkle,  cheeks  will  tingle, 

35 


'T  is  the  Autumn  Husking-bee ! 

Give  your  aid ! 

Who  's  afraid, 
If  a  purple  ear  one  see? 

Jocund  speech  and  racy  song, 

Ripples  of  light  silvery  laughter 
Circling  round  the  dusty  rafter; 
Who  would  ask 
Brighter  task 
Than  to  husk  with  such  a  throng? 

Follows  now  the  country  dance; 

Strike  up,  Jerry,  with  your  fiddle ! 
Swiftly  up  and  down  the  middle 
Gayly  skip, 
Smile  on  lip, 
Youth  and  maid,  retreat,  advance ! 

Then  along  the  dusky  lane, 

Minding  not  the  nipping  weather, 
Shy  young  couples  stroll  together. 
Love  confest, 
Love  is  blest 
With  the  husking  of  the  grain ! 


tie 


THE   POVERTY   PARTY 

AUTUMN  it  was  and  the  evenings  were  long; 
Sure  it  was  time  for  a  wee  bit  of  fun; 
Music  and  dancin'  can  never  be  wrong 
When  the  day's  labor  is  over  and  done. 
Twenty-four  couple  we  gathered  in  all 
At  the  Poverty  Party  at  Papineau's  Hall. 

All  of  us  poor  folk,  but  all  of  us  young, 
High  beat  our  hearts  with  the  joy  of  full  life; 
None  of  us  lads  but  was  secretly  stung  — 
Stung  with  the  hope  of  possessin'  a  wife. 
Never  again  will  such  pleasure  befall 
At  a  young  people's  party  at  Papineau's  Hall. 

Cornet  and  organ  made  music  divine; 

Smooth  was  the  floor  and  bright  the  lamps  gleamed; 

Brighter  than  stars  did  Peggy's  eyes  shine; 

She  was  the  lassie  of  whom  my  heart  dreamed, 

She  was  the  gayest,  the  belle  of  the  ball, 

At  the  Poverty  Party  at  Papineau's  Hall. 

Waltzes  and  schottishes,  polkas  and  reels, 
Followed  each  other  like  gems  on  a  crown; 
Peggy  paid  heed  to  my  fervent  appeals, 

39 


Ten  times  or  more  I  wrote  her  name  down. 
And  I  took  her  to  supper  and  carried  her  shawl, 
At  the  Poverty  Party  at  Papineau's  Hall. 

Late  was  the  hour  when  the  party  was  done, 
Yet  the  last  dance  would  none  of  us  miss; 
Seein'  'em  home  was  the  cream  of  the  fun. 
Peggy  —  she  gave  me  her  first  little  kiss. 
Now  we  are  old,  but  we  often  recall 
The  Poverty  Party  at  Papineau's  Hall. 


UNDER  THE   AWNING 

"TT*  WAS  a  summer  evening,  cool  and  charming; 
JL       Every  seat  upon  the  Common  held  its  blissful 

twain; 
Boomed  the  beetles  by  them  quite  alarming, 

And  the  foliage  rustled  like  the  dropping  of  the 
rain. 

Perfumes  from  the  buds  of  roses  rising 

Woke  ecstatic  raptures  from  the  rose  lips  of  the 

fair. 
That  soft  hands  were  claspt  is  not  surprising, 

Nor  that  waists  were  clipt  and  kisses  stolen  un 
aware. 

40 


I  too  sat  with  Mary  'neath  the  awning, 

While  the  sickle  moon  with  Venus  gemmed  the 

golden  West; 
And  I  felt  the  tender  passion  dawning, 

Like  a  moonrise   o'er   the   heaving  ocean  of  my 
breast. 

"Dearest  Mary,  wilt  thou  be  my  star,  pet? 
Yes,  I   vow,   'tis   thou   alone   on   earth  whom   I 

adore ! 
When  we're  married,  Mary,  not  a  carpet 

Need  we   have   upon   our   lovely   inlaid  wooden 
floor!" 

Ah !  how  confidentially  we  whispered, 

Cheek  to  cheek,  while  melancholy  toads  chirped  in 

the  trees, 
And  our  mothers  not  the  slightest  lisp  heard 

As  they  sat  within  the  parlor,  talking  charities. 

Many  years  are  garnered  since  we  planned  it, 

That  our  house  should  have  no  carpet  on  the  inlaid 

floor. 
Gentle  reader,  canst  thou  understand  it? 

I  was  six  then,  and  my  neighbor,  Mary,  she  was 
four. 

41 


oe 


LONG  AGO 


I    REMEMBER  the  grove  near  the  village 
Which  the  brook  ran  murmuring  through, 
And  the  shady  retreat  by  the  still  edge 
Of  the  pond  where  the  willows  grew. 
In  springtime,  in  summer,  I  went  there  — 

I  wonder  if  any  one  knew 
Of  the  many  long  hours  that  I  spent  there, 
First  with  Mary,  and  then,  Maud,  with  you ! 

The  flowers  that  grew  on  the  hillside 

Seemed  fragrant  as  those  of  Cathay, 
The  breeze  o'er  the  bright  daffodils  sighed  — 

Or  were  they  but  buttercups  gay? 
The  pond  the  lily-pads  covered, 

The  lilies  gleamed  white  in  the  sun, 
And  above  them  the  dragon-fly  hovered, 

Like  the  flash  of  a  scintillant  pun. 

Ah,  Maud,  how  the  birds  used  to  sing  there, 

In  the  trees  that  kissed  overhead ! 
Kissed?     We  never  did  any  such  thing  there  — 

"'Twas  too  improper,"  you  said. 
But  I  brought  you  gay  flowers  by  the  lapful, 

And  wove  graceful  crowns  for  your  hair, 
While  you  filled  the  band  of  my  cap  full, 

And  gave  me  a  garden  to  wear. 

42 


Oft  we  sat  on  the  slope  (eating  sorrel !) 

While  the  wind  in  the  pine  branches  sobbed, 
And  the  mischievous  squirrel  would  quarrel 

With  the  robin  whose  nest  he  had  robbed. 
But  we  thought  not  of  quarrels  in  those  years, 

Nor  heeded  the  sighs  of  the  pine, 
Any  more  than  the  chubs  mid  the  osiers 

Ever  dreamed  of  the  fish-hook  and  line ! 


SHELLING  PEAS 

(A  SUMMER  IDYL.) 

AT  the  back  door  of  the  kitchen, 
Sitting  on  the  foot-worn  sill, 
Looking  toward  the  pine  woods  which  in 

Beauty  crowned  the  westward  hill, 
Thrilling  'neath  the  necromancy 
Of  the  south  wind  in  the  trees, 
Sat  together  Nick  and  Nancy, 
Eager  rivals,  shelling  peas. 

On  the  chestnut  tree  a  squirrel 
Chuckled  o'er  his  stolen  nut, 

While  two  robins  saw  some  peril 
(They  could  not  have  told  you  what) 

43 


In  the  actions  of  a  kitten 

Chasing  her  elusive  tail :  — 
Other  rustic  sights,  unwritten, 

Charmed  them  as  they  stormed  the  pail. 

Now,  while  Nancy's  peas  still  held  out, 

Nick  had  reached  his  very  last, 
And  with  all  his  panful  shelled  out 

From  his  lap  the  dish  he  cast, 
Scaring  off  the  careless  neighbor's 

Chickens  from  the  strawberry  bed, 
Startling  Grandma  at  her  labors 

With  the  butter  in  the  shed. 

Then  Nick  took  from  blushing  Nancy 

Half  the  peas  as  yet  unshelled 
(He  could  in  the  polished  pan  see 

Pouting  sweet  rebellion  quelled !) 
And  together  fingers  nimble 

Quickly  finished  up  the  work. 
"Look,"  cried  Nick,  "here  is  a  symbol! 

In  this  pod  predictions  lurk." 

So  he  broke  the  smallest  pea-pod : 

It  contained  two  little  peas. 
"  See,  my  Nancy,  we  may  reap  odd 

Stalks  of  truth  from  things  like  these ! 


44 


£>octete 


These  two  peas  are  you  and  I,  dear, 
Dwelling  in  one  pod  of  bliss, 

Cool  it  looks  and  green,  inside  here; 
Would  you  like  a  home  like  this?  " 

Round  the  slender  waist  of  Nancy 

Nick's  insinuating  sleeve 
With  a  thrill  of  joy,  I  fancy, 

Stole,  and  waited  not  for  leave. 
And  upon  her  lips  he  printed 

(In  large  type)  a  fervent  kiss, 
While  a  sob  from  Nancy  hinted 

Her  deep  ecstasy  of  bliss. 


Hark!  the  cockerel  from  the  Jones's 

Barnyard  sings  his  loudest  lay, 
And  the  Bantam  cock  intones  his 

Wishes  for  "the  happy  day." 
And  the  half-oblivious  couple 

Heed  not  jibe  of  beast  or  bird, 
Or  the  father  coming  up  hill  — 

Is  not  "Young  Love  "  too  absurd? 


45 


tie 

CONFESSION 

IT  was  a  charming  day,  my  dear, 
An  August  day  some  years  ago; 
From  me  you  ran  away,  my  dear, 

Down  thro'  the  shaded  walk  you  know. 
I  saw  your  fluttering  drapery 

White  mid  the  sun-fleckt  trees  like  snow. 
I  followed  to  the  grapery 

And  there  I  found  you  all  aglow. 

And  when  I  kissed  your  cheek,  my  dear, 

To  pay  you  for  the  way  you  sped, 
You  pursed  your  lips  to  speak,  my  dear; 

Do  you  remember  what  you  said? 
You  said,  "I  love"  —  ah!  yes,  you  did, 

Why  then,  I  pray,  this  tell-tale  red? 
You  said,  "  I  love  "  —  confess  you  did !  — 

"'I  love  sweet  grapes '  was  what  I  said." 

THE   BEAU   OF  THE   TOWN 

HE  once  was  young  and  gay, — 
A  beau. 
But  that  was  long  ago; 

To-day 
He  is  very  old  and  gray. 


tie  &>otittt 


His  clothes  were  once  the  best; 

His  tile 
Was  at  the  top  of  style; 

His  vest 
Was  flowered  upon  his  breast. 

He  then  was  tall  and  slim; 

His  eye 
Made  all  the  maidens  sigh 

For  him. 
It  now  is  bleared  and  dim. 

He  drove  a  handsome  pair 

Of  grays, 
And  all  men  sang  his  praise; 

The  "heir" 
Had  plenty  and  to  spare. 

He  now  is  poor  and  lame 

And  bent; 
His  sunshine  friends  all  went, 

And  shame 
To  take  their  places  came. 

The  flowers  upon  his  vest 

Are  rags; 
His  coat  is  torn  and  sags. 

The  rest 
May  easily  be  guessed. 


47 


His  youth  was  spent  in  vain; 

His  age 
Is  like  a  blotted  page; 

His  bane 
Was  sparkling  bright  champagne. 


THE   PEALING   OF   THE   BELL 

MY  little  lady  went  one  day 
A-sailing  in  a  yacht 
Upon  the  waters  of  the  bay  — 
'Twas  summer  time  and  hot. 

The  wind  at  first  had  promised  well, 
And  filled  the  spinnaker; 

But  ere  they  reached  the  Point  it  fell 
The  craft  seemed  not  to  stir. 

The  skipper  stood  beside  the  wheel, 
And  cocked  his  weather  eye, 

And  wet  his  thumb  if  he  might  feel 
A  zephyr  wandering  by. 

And  while  they  drifted  with  the  tide 
A  mile  or  so  from  shore, 

My  little  lady  multiplied 
Her  stock  of  naval  lore. 

48 


Ue 


She  learned  the  different  kinds  of  rig 

That  on  the  deep  are  seen  — 
"  Hermorphodite  "  and  sloop  and  brig, 

Schooner  and  barkentine. 

She  learned  the  terms  that  so  confuse 

A  maiden  country  bred  : 
That  "sheets  "  on  ships  they  do  not  use 

To  make  a  sailor's  bed. 

That  "come  in  stays"  means  merely  "tack," 
That  booms  are  said  to  "  jibe  "  — 

And  many  more  which  from  the  lack 
Of  space  I  can't  describe. 

And  when  a  breeze  sprang  up  at  last, 

And  gently  'gan  to  sough, 
She  gazed  at  bowsprit  and  at  mast, 

And  cried,  "  She  springs  her  luff  !  " 

The  skipper  let  her  take  the  wheel, 

And  steer  the  bonny  craft; 
How  proud  the  pilot  fair  did  feel  ! 

How  merrily  she  laughed  ! 

Now  "starboard"  and  now  "  hard-a-port  " 

The  wheel  was  swiftly  turned. 
(Yes,  steering  was  her  special  forte, 

I  since  have  surely  learned  !) 

49 


The  breeze  it  blew,  the  blue  waves  danced, 

The  graceful  yacht  careened, 
And  still  the  burning  sunbeams  glanced 

From  brow  and  nose  unscreened. 

What  wonder  that  when  morning  came 

(The  cruise  a  past  delight !) 
My  fair  one's  face  was  all  aflame, 

Her  dainty  nose  a  sight ! 

But  when  the  cuticle  came  off 

(Her  nose  was  retrousse), 
I  felt  inclined  to  laugh  and  scoff, 

As  fondest  lovers  may. 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "you  know  full  well 

What  sore  distress  I  feel, 
And  yet  't  is  proper  that  a  belle 

Like  you  should  sometimes  peal." 


BLOWING   BUBBLES 

AH !  how  far  away  and  dreamy 
Are  the  summers  of  my  youth; 
Ere  I  knew  that  life  was  seamy, 
Ere  I  learned  the  bitter  truth. 

5° 


Golden-colored,  free  from  troubles 
Were  those  days  of  long  ago  — 

But  they  vanished  like  the  bubbles 
That  we  children  loved  to  blow. 

Often  to  the  mossy  house-top, 
High  among  the  swaying  elms, 

(Where  no  moment  did  the  boughs  stop 
Fencing  as  for  airy  realms), 

Would  we  bring  our  bowl  of  water 
And  our  fragile  pipes  of  clay  — 

I  and  our  next  neighbor's  daughter 
(She  is  dead  now)  —  little  May. 

All  around  us  rival  thrushes 
Revelled  in  the  lists  of  song, 

And  the  locust  in  noon  hushes 

Shrilled  his  trumpet  loud  and  long. 

Far  above  us  swept  the  swallows 
In  swift  races  through  the  sky, 

Mid  the  cloud-land  hills  and  hollows, 
Playing  hide-and-seek  on  high. 

Far  below  us  lay  the  river 
With  its  placid  azure  gleam, 

Where  the  sunbeams  all  a-quiver 
Scarce  disturbed  its  peaceful  dream. 


tie  £>octete 


Every  rock  and  tree  and  dwelling, 
And  the  orchard,  row  by  row, 

On  the  hillside  upward  swelling, 
Had  its  counterpart  below. 

We  could  see  the  shadows  racing 

With  the  sunshine,  frown  with  smile, 

Where  the  lindens  interlacing 
Made  a  Gothic  minster  aisle. 

And  the  quaint  unpainted  steeple 
Of  the  church  that  faced  the  green 

Seemed  to  watch  the  buried  people 
Like  the  guardian  of  the  scene. 

On  the  house-top  sat  we  gayly 
Blowing  bubbles,  unconcerned, 

As  like  vessels  fashioned  frailly 
Off  they  sailed  and  ne'er  returned. 

Breezes  swept  them  in  derision 
On  their  brief  and  brilliant  flight; 

Then  they  vanished  from  our  vision 
Like  young  hopes  of  dear  delight. 

Still  I  see  that  scene  before  me, 
And  the  fine  old  country-seat, 

And  remembrance  rushes  o'er  me, 
With  its  bitter  and  its  sweet. 


Radiant  hours  of  childish  pleasures 
Catch  the  sunlight  as  ye  will, 

Youth  and  age  have  different  measures, 
But  our  joys  are  bubbles  still. 


AMATEUR  PHOTOGRAPHY 

I    FELL  in  love  with  Phyllis  Browne; 
She  was  the  nicest  girl  in  town. 
Her  father  had  a  bank  account 
Of  a  superfluous  amount; 
And  so  the  more  I  thought  of  it 
The  clearer  seemed  the  benefit 
That  such  a  union  would  confer 
At  least  on  me  —  perhaps  on  her. 
For  she  was  pretty !     Such  a  nose ! 
Such  grace  of  curves !     Such  tint  of  rose ! 
Such  sylph-like  elegance  of  pose ! 
Such  sunny  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
With  little  cherubs  peeping  through ! 
Such  golden  bangs !     Oh,  every  such 
Was  the  superlative  of  much ! 


And  educated !     She  could  speak 
Italian,  Spanish,  Volapiik, 


53 


tie  g>octete 


French,  Russian,  Swedish,  Danish,  Dutch, 

Choctaw  and  Sanskrit,  Latin,  Greek; 

And  every  language  born  of  Babel 

To  read  or  speak  them  she  was  able. 

So  learned,  pretty,  —  rich  besides, 

Yes,  she  would  be  the  gem  of  brides  ! 

And  I,  tho'  poor,  had  every  taste 

The  wealth  of  Crcesus  would  have  graced; 

So  I  resolved  to  risk  my  fate 

In  winning  such  an  equal  mate. 

At  first  my  chances  promised  fair; 
She  met  me  half-way  everywhere; 
Accepted  my  civilities, 
And  sometimes  made  me  ill  at  ease 
When  I,  on  parting,  held  her  hand, 
And  felt  that  mute  "You  understand," 
Exprest  by  just  the  faintest  squeeze. 
(I  can  not  think  she  was  a  flirt, 
And  yet  she  did  it  to  my  hurt  !) 

One  day  I  crost  the  Rubicon 
And  went  to  win  my  paragon. 
I  rang  her  door-bell,  inly  bent 
On  knowing  if  she  would  consent. 
She  sent  me  down  a  little  note, 
The  coolest  that  she  ever  wrote. 


54 


tie  g>oeiete 


"Excuse  me,  please,  from  seeing  you, 
I've  something  else  that  I  must  do; 
I'll  see  you  later  if  we  live." 
I  asked  the  footman  if  he  knew 
Why  such  an  answer  she  should  give. 
The  servant  shrewdly  shook  his  head; 
"She's  busy,  sir,"  he  gravely  said, 
"Developing  a  negative." 


SPEAKING  FEATURES 

WHENEVER  I  talk  with  my  sweetheart 
She  speaks  with  her  great  brown  eyes; 
And  if  (and  'tis  often)  I'm  witty, 
A  gladdening  smile  replies. 

If  (rarely)  I  grow  sentimental, 

And  out- Romeo  Hamlet  the  Dane, 

With  a  golden-lined  cloud  on  her  forehead 
She  frowns  me  to  wisdom  again. 

And  if  I  sing  her  some  love  song, 

And  show  all  the  feeling  I  can, 
The  rose  on  her  cheek  is  her  "Thank  you  " :  — 

Oh,  I  am  a  fortunate  man ! 

55 


tie 

SCHERZO 


WOULD  I  keep  the  "I  "  from  sight? 
Ay,  I  would  blind  it. 
For  when  self  I  lose  aright, 
Then  alone  I  find  it. 


MEMORIES 

A  FADED  flower  will  touch  the  key 
Of  many  a  sacred  memory  : 
A  yellowed  note,  a  crumpled  glove, 
Will  call  up  visions  of  young  love, 
And  make  the  heart  beat  fast  again 
At  sweet  remembrance  mixt  with  pain. 


HAREBELLS 

HOW  wild  the  steep  along  the  hill 
Where  rocks  grow  bold  and  bolder  ! 
There  harebells  grow  in  fond  alliance 
With  pine  trees  looking  down  like  giants, 
And  every  little  crevice  fill 
With  purple  bells  that  yet  are  still 
While  nodding  sweet  defiance 
To  every  chance  beholder. 

56 


THE   SWALLOW 


OF  all  the  birds  that  swim  the  air 
I'd  rather  be  the  swallow; 
And,  summer  days,  when  days  were  fair, 

I'd  follow,  follow,  follow 
The  hurrying  clouds  across  the  sky, 
And  with  the  singing  winds  I'd  fly. 

My  eager  wings  should  need  no  rest 

If  I  were  but  a  swallow; 
I'd  scale  the  highest  mountain  crest 

And  sound  the  deepest  hollow; 
No  forest  could  my  pathway  hide, 
No  ocean  plain  should  be  too  wide. 

I'd  find  the  sources  of  the  Nile, 
I'd  seek  the  Liukiu  Islands, 

Climb  Chimborazo's  snow-capt  pile, 
And  Scotland's  rugged  Highlands; 

I'd  skim  the  sands  of  Timbuctoo; 

Constantinople's  mosques  I'd  view. 

I'd  revel  mid  the  Isles  of  Greece  — 

The  pride  of  old  Apollo, 
And  circle  round  the  bay  of  Nice, 

If  I  were  but  a  swallow. 
And  haunt  the  sunny  fields  of  France  — 
The  vineyards  merry  with  the  dance. 


57 


ue 


I'd  see  my  shadow  in  the  Rhine 
Dart  swiftly  like  an  arrow, 

And  catch  the  breath  of  eglantine 
Along  the  braes  of  Yarrow; 

I'd  roam  the  world  and  never  tire 

If  I  might  have  my  heart's  desire. 


THE   BALTIMORE   ORIOLE 

ON  the  elm  branch  gayly  swinging 
Where  the  tender  young  leaves  curl, 
Sits  a  Golden  Robin  singing :  — 
"Pretty  girl, 

Pretty,  pretty,  pretty  girl." 

All  day  on  the  branch  above  me 
While  the  purple  leaves  unfurl, 

He  is  asking :  "  Dost  thou  love  me, 
Pretty  girl, 

Pretty,  pretty,  pretty  girl?" 

Then  he  hears  his  brown  mate's  answer 
From  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  lane : 

"  Catch  me,  catch  me,  if  you  can,  sir, 
I  can  fly,  though  I  am  plain." 

58 


tit 


But  he  cares  not  as  he  swings  there 
Mid  the  springtime's  rush  and  whirl; 

Still  he  blithely  clings  and  sings  there, 
"  Pretty  girl, 

Pretty,  pretty,  pretty  girl." 


MOONSHINE 


THE  red  moon  hangs  on  the  sky 
Like  the  shield  of  a  viking  bold, 
And  across  the  ocean  waves 
Lies  a  track  of  molten  gold. 

It  leads  to  the  sea-king's  realm, 

Beyond  our  eager  sight, 
And  there  is  his  palace  of  pearl 
And  his  throne  of  diamond  bright. 

His  chariot,  dolphin-drawn, 

And  his  Tritons  with  puffed  cheeks, 
Have  never  come  to  our  shores 

Since  the  days  of  the  gallant  Greeks. 

By  the  crest  of  the  weed-fringed  reefs 

No  Naiads  comb  their  hair, 
Nor  now  do  the  Sirens  sing 

So  treacherously  fair. 


59 


De  £>octete 


But  follow  that  path  of  light 
Beyond  the  tumbling  main, 

And  there  will  the  mermaids  dance 
And  the  Sirens  sing  again. 


ON   THE   STREET 

AS  I  walked  the  street, 
Melancholy,  lonely, 
Came  the  vision  sweet 
For  a  moment  only. 

Not  a  star  was  out, 

Tho'  the  day  was  ended; 

Darkness  as  of  doubt 

From  the  clouds  descended. 

All  my  work  had  failed, 
I  was  worn  and  weary; 

Skies  of  joy  were  veiled, 
Night  fell  black  and  dreary. 

Not  a  soul  I  knew 

In  the  mansions  splendid; 

Tithes  of  bitter  rue 

In  my  heart  were  blended. 

60 


Doctor 


Then  I  caught  the  gleam 

Of  a  heavenly  vision, 
Brighter  than  a  dream, 

Of  a  scene  elysian. 

'T  was  a  homelike  room, 

Rich  and  warm  and  cosy; 
Thro'  the  evening  gloom 

Streamed  the  firelight  rosy. 

Children  sat  around, 

Gladness  on  their  faces; 
There,  thought  I,  abound 

All  the  Christian  graces. 

Then  a  maiden  fair 

Came  to  draw  the  curtain. 
Breathless  stood  I  there, 

Trembling  and  uncertain. 

With  her  hand  upraised 

And  her  pure  face  lifted, 
Spirit-like  she  gazed 

Thro*  the  darkness  rifted. 

Then  the  curtain  fell  : 

But  that  scene  of  gladness 
Worked  a  magic  spell 

On  my  cloudy  sadness. 

61 


Ue 


Framed  in  rosy  light, 

Still  that  unknown  maiden 

Beams  upon  my  sight, 

When  with  grief  I'm  laden. 

As  I  walked  the  street, 

Melancholy,  lonely, 
Came  the  vision  sweet 

For  a  moment  only. 

A   CAMEO 

QUEEN  PENELOPE  all  the  day, 
Weaves  a  robe  of  glistening  white; 
"It  is  almost  done,"  her  suitors  say, 
"Soon  shall  we  feast  on  the  wedding  night." 
But  in  silent  hours  as  her  tears  fall  fast, 
She  ravels  the  woof,  she  begins  anew; 
And  thus  fly  the  years  until  at  last 
Odysseus  comes,  her  hero  true. 

A  garment  of  snow  Dame  Nature  weaves, 
And  when  at  night  her  spirit  grieves 
Her  tears  melt  the  woven  snow  away; 
She  begins  again  on  another  day. 
The  north  winds  cold  are  the  suitors  bold 
But  Summer  comes  ere  the  year  grows  old. 

62 


LOVE'S   FIRE 


T  T  7HAT  a  glowing  fire 
V  V      Young  Love  kindles 

With  the  fuel 
Of  desire! 
When  't  is  fairly  started 

How  he  tends  it  ! 
When  it  dwindles 

How  at  first  he  mends  it  ! 


Is  he  tender  hearted? 
Nay,  he's  cruel: 

For  at  last 

When  the  novelty  is  past, 
Weary  grown 

Of  the  dying  embers, 

He  no  more  remembers 
That  the  fire  was  once  his  own. 


Lets  the  flashes 
Fade  in  ashes 

Gray  and  cold ! 

Young  Love  soon  grows  old 
And  that  ends  it. 


LARKS   AND   NIGHTINGALES 

ALONE  I  sit  at  eventide; 
The  twilight  glory  pales, 
And  o'er  the  meadows  far  and  wide 
Chant  pensive  bobolinks. 
(One  might  say  nightingales !) 

Song-sparrows  warble  on  the  tree, 

I  hear  the  purling  brook, 

And  from  the  old  "manse  o'er  the  lea" 

Flies  slow  the  cawing  crow. 

(In  England  'twere  a  rook!) 

The  last  faint  golden  beams  of  day 

Still  glow  on  cottage  panes 

And  on  their  lingering  homeward  way 

Walk  weary  laboring  men. 

(Oh  would  that  we  had  swains !) 

From  farmyards,  down  fair  rural  glades 

Come  sounds  of  tinkling  bells, 

And  songs  of  merry  brown  milkmaids, 

Sweeter  than  oriole's. 

(Yes,  thank  you  —  Philomel's!) 


I  could  sit  here  till  morning  came, 
All  thro'  the  night  hours  dark, 
Until  I  saw  the  sun's  bright  flame 
And  heard  the  chickadee. 
(Alas !  we  have  no  lark !) 

We  have  no  leas,  no  larks,  no  rooks, 

No  swains,  no  nightingales, 

No  singing  milkmaids  (save  in  books) 

The  poet  does  his  best. 

It  is  the  rhyme  that  fails ! 


TO   CHLOE 


SEE !     I  have  returned  thy  picture 
As  thou  didst  request. 
But  I  hold  another,  better, 
In  my  breast. 

If  I  would,  I  can  not  send  it; 

It  will  not  depart. 
'Twas  thyself  who  didst  engrave  it 

On  my  heart. 


ue  £>odete 

ON    RETURNING  A   BORROWED   RING 

IF,  while  the  world  lay  wrapped  in  sleep, 
And  midnight  stars  begemmed  the  sky, 
From  some  far  cavern  dark  and  deep, 

Where  delve  and  toil  the  Genii, 
My  potent  will  could  hither  bring 

A  giant  ready  to  obey, 
By  reason  of  my  lady's  ring 

And  the  strange  magic  of  its  sway :  — 
What  should  be  then  my  swift  commands? 

What  errands  should  he  haste  to  run? 
What  should  he  bring  from  Orient  lands, 

Or  trackless  realms  beyond  the  sun? 

Ah !  he  should  bring  me  sparkling  gems 

In  golden  caskets  chaste  and  rare, 
And  brilliants  set  in  diadems 

To  glitter  in  my  lady's  hair. 
And  every  morning  in  her  room 

A  jar  of  roses  he  should  set, 
Awaiting  but  her  smile  to  bloom 

With  fragrant  crystal  dewdrops  wet. 
All  should  be  lavished  at  her  feet 

Without  her  knowing  whence  they  came, 
And  in  her  joy  my  love  would  meet 

A  recompense  without  a  name. 

66 


te 


But  vain  are  wishes;  rings  are  vain; 

No  talisman  wakes  magic  powers, 
And  idle  fancies  bring  but  pain 

To  lonely  hearts  in  weary  hours. 
So  I  my  lady's  ring  restore  :  — 

'T  is  but  a  band  of  yellow  gold 
Through  which  I  see  the  world  and  more 

So  much  the  circlet  small  can  hold  ! 
And  if  to  me  the  Genie  came, 

I  were  his  slave  (as  I  am  thine  !)  — 
How  could  I  dare  to  breathe  thy  name 

E'en  should  my  longing  lips  incline? 


67 


IN   THE   OLD   COUNTRY   CHURCH 

IS  it  a  dream?     Am  I  once  more  a  child? 
In  this  old  church  I  worshipped  long  ago ! 
Again  I  feel  the  strange,  delightful  glow 
That  filled  my  young  heart  with  a  radiance  mild, 
While  from  the  organ-loft  the  tones,  beguiled 
By  skilful  hands,  harmoniously  flow, 
Now  swelling  high,  now  welling  faint  and  low, 
As  tho'  harsh  discords  all  were  reconciled ! 

Outside,  the  graceful  elm  boughs  softly  sway; 

Thro'    the   open    windows   breathes   the   summer 

breeze; 
And  in  the  hush  before  the  people  pray 

I  hear  the  murmur  of  a  myriad  bees. 
Is  it  a  dream?     Am  I  a  child  to-day? 

It  verily  seems  so,  as  I  bow  my  knees ! 

Ah!  golden  hours  of  childhood  gone  forever! 
My  brown-eyed,  quiet  little  maiden  there 
Who  feels  but  knows  not  what  is  meant  by  prayer 
The  time  must  come  when  she  too  will  endeavor 
Her  weary  heart  from  sad  to-days  to  sever, 

71 


Bonnets? 

To  lift  the  burden  of  a  present  care; 
Then  will  she  to  the  Father's  house  repair 
To  find  sure  comfort.     May  it  fail  her  never ! 

The  summer  breeze  will  sweep  the  cloudless  sky; 

The  yellow  bees  will  hum  among  the  elms; 
The  mellow  organ  tones  will  swell  and  sigh; 

The  priest  will  speak  his  words  of  counsel  sweet 
To  guide  the  wandering  soul  to  heavenly  realms : 

And  thus  ea'ch  age  its  marvels  doth  repeat. 


RUSSIA 

"  Russia !    Russia  !    I  behold  thee  from  my  wondrous  beauti 
ful  distance."  —  GOGOL. 

SATURN  I  AN  mother !  why  dost  thou  devour 
Thy  offspring,  who  by  loving  thee  are  curst? 
Why  must  they  fear  thee  who  would  fain  be  first 
To  add  new  glories  to  thy  matchless  dower? 
Why  must  they  flee  before  thy  cruel  power, 
That  punishes  their  best  as  treason's  worst  — 
The  treason  that  despotic  chains  would  burst  — 
That  makes  men  heroes  who  in  slavery  cower? 

Upon  thy  brow  the  stars  of  empire  burn; 

Thy  bearing  has  a  majesty  sublime. 
Thy  exiled  children  ever  toward  thee  yearn; 

72 


Nor  should  their  ardent  love  be  deemed  a  crime. 
O,  mighty  mother  of  men,  to  mildness  turn, 
And  haste  the  advent  of  a  happier  time! 


SIBERIA 

LL  hope  forego,  O  ye  who  enter  here !  " 

Here  winds  are  sweet  with  breath  of  myriad 
flowers, 

The  skies  arch  blue  o'er  lands  of  richest  dowers, 
And  all  the  fairest  gifts  of  earth  appear. 
All  hope  forego  ?     Why,  surely  hope,  not  fear, 
Should  view  this  land,  whose  belting  Ural  towers 
With   wealth   of   gold   and   precious   stones,   and 

powers 
Of  mighty  rivers  winding  far  and  near! 

Yet  look !     What  mean  those  melancholy  trains 
Of  desperate  men  and  sad-eyed  women,  looking 

back 

To  bid  that  awful  bourne  a  last  farewell? 
O  hear   those   groans,    those   sighs,   those   clanking 

chains, 
As  on  they  drag  along  the  hopeless  track 

That  leads,  if  not  to  death,  to  worse  than  hell ! 

73 


Bonnets? 

TO  AN  IMPERILLED  TRAVELLER 

T  TNFLINCHING  Dante  of  a  later  day, 
\^J     Thou  who  hast  wandered  thro'  the  realms  of 

pain 

And  seen  with  aching  breast  and  whirling  brain 
Woes  which  thou  wert  unable  to  allay, 
What  frightful  visions  hast  thou  brought  away : 

Of  torments,  passions,  agonies,  struggles  vain 
To  break  the  prison  walls,  to  rend  the  chain  — 
Of  hopeless  hearts  too  desperate  to  pray ! 

Men  are  the  devils  of  that  pitiless  hell ! 

Men  guard  the  labyrinth  of  that  ninefold  curse ! 

Marvel  of  marvels !     Thou  hast  lived  to  tell, 
In  prose  more  sorrowful  than  Dante's  verse, 

Of  pangs  more  grievous,  sufferings  more  fell, 

Than  Dante  or  his  master  dared  rehearse ! 


IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

AS  one  who,  wandering  thro'  some  tropic  land, 
Content  with  all  the  tropic's  languorous  ease, 
Amid  the  tangled  maze  of  giant  trees 
Chances  on  ruined  temples,  vast  and  grand, 

74 


Bonnets 

On  broken  sculpture  hurled  on  every  hand, — 
The  fallen  column  and  the  crumbling  frieze, — 
By  man  abandoned  countless  centuries, 

And  marvels  and  can  only  silent  stand, — 

So  I,  rejoicing  in  thy  sunny  heart, 

Loving  the  danger  of  thy  radiant  eyes, 
Have  heedless  strayed  into  a  realm  apart, 
Deep  hidden  in  thy  life, —  a  ruined  realm 
Of   joys  and  hopes  which   years  with   death   o'er- 

whelm, — 
And  sorrow  fills  me  with  a  dumb  surprise. 

SORROWS 

THE  clouds  which  fleecy  are  and  silver-lined, 
As  high  above  us  joyfully  they  fly, 
And  seem  like  living  creatures  in  the  sky, 
Sporting  and  racing  with  the  free,  glad  wind, 
When  near  us  are  but  mists,  damp  and  unkind, 
Which  gloom  the  azure  heaven,  and  coldly  lie 
Upon  the  hills  and  fill  the  valleys.     Ay, 
Thus  sorrows  are  within  the  human  mind. 

For  other's  woes  are  tinted  with  romance; 

We  watch  them  from  afar  and  feel  them  not, 
Excepting  as  they  shade  the  sun  by  chance, 

75 


And  add  new  zest  to  our  delightful  lot. 
But  let  them  on  us  like  a  storm  advance, 
How  swiftly  then  our  gladness  do  they  blot ! 

MIDSUMMER   NOON 

i 

BENEATH  the  noontide  sun  the  valleys  lie, 
Swooning  with  heat  and  full  of  golden  light; 
The  swift-winged  swallows  cease  their  busy  flight, 
Slow  shadows  across  the  dreamy  landscape  fly, 
As  fleecy  clouds  drift  o'er  the  azure  sky. 
The  robins  sing  no  longer  in  the  trees; 
From  the  wild  alder  floats  the  hum  of  bees; 
A  locust  shrills  upon  the  elm  near  by. 

The  sweet-toned  bell  up  in  the  square  church  tower 
Breaks  on  the  silence,  and  the  wooded  hills 

Repeat  the  sound,  which  of  the  resting  hour 
To  mowers  laboring  in  the  hay-fields  tells; 

Hanging  upon  some  low-limbed  tree  the  scythe, 

To  lunch  they  hasten,  weary  and  yet  blithe. 


Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  old  oak  tree, 
My  friend  and  I  lie  on  the  velvet  grass : 
Amid  the  leaves  the  whispering  breezes  pass, 

And  the  small  crickets  chirp  incessantly. 


The  distant,  cloud-like  mountains  we  can  see, 
Heaped  on  the  west  in  deep  diaphanous  mass; 
And  at  our  feet  —  a  living  sea  of  glass  — 

The  pond  is  sleeping  in  tranquillity. 

Silent  we  are.     The  calmness  of  the  scene, 
The  quiet  beauty  of  the  summer  day, 
Says  more  than  any  words  that  we  can  say. 

Silence  means  more  to  us  than  speech  can  mean. 

'Tis  joy  enough  against  the  oak  to  lean, 
And  dream  the  perfect  hours  of  peace  away. 


THE   TOMB   OF  TIME 


IT  was  the  midnight  hour.     I  stood  alone 
Beneath  the  stars  in  a  deserted  land, 
Where  cold  winds  swept  across  the  wastes  of  sand, 
Amongst  the  meagre  herbage  making  moan. 
I  saw  a  pyramid  of  polished  stone, 

Black  as  the  blackest  ebony,  and  grand 
As  though  it  had  been  built  by  God's  own  hand; 
A  gloomy  temple  Death  might  call  his  own. 


A  portal  was  upon  the  northern  side, 
And  fiery  letters  in  an  unknown  tongue; 


77 


And  from  the  arch  a  flaming  censer  hung, 
Which  threw  a  baleful  radiance  far  and  wide. 

I  saw  the  massive  gates  were  open  flung, — 
I  wished  to  enter,  but  my  courage  died. 


And  as  I  pondered  trembling,  lo !  there  came 

Across  the  yellow  sands  a  solemn  throng; 

The  air  was  burdened  with  a  mournful  song, 
And  torches,  flaming  with  a  ghostly  flame, 
Weird  shadows  cast  upon  an  ebon  frame, 

Whereon  a  coffin  lay  with  trappings  hung. 

With  slow  and  solemn  tread  they  moved  along, 
And  reached  the  portal  of  the  mystic  name. 

They  entered  and  I  followed.     With  a  clang 
The  gates  shut  to,  and  thro'  the  vaulted  hall 

The  awful  echoes,  thundering,  rang  and  rang, 
And  died  away  in  tones  funereal. 
Then  on  my  ear  did  saddening  music  fall, 

And  tear-choked  voices  with  an  organ  sang. 

in 

A  dirge  they  sang  unto  the  year  just  dead, — 

The  old  year  which  had  reached  the  Tomb  of  Time. 
I  heard  the  organ  and  the  voices  chime, 

But  not  a  dead  year  lifted  up  his  head. 

78 


Silent  they  lay  as  when  they  first  were  laid, 
With  all  their  records  of  good  deeds  or  crime, 
In  niches  fated  by  a  Fate  sublime; 

For  Fate  by  even  Time  must  be  obeyed. 

I  saw  them  lying  there,  all  cold  and  still 
Each  in  his  place, —  dead  years,  the  vanished  past. 
I  saw  the  places  kept  for  coming  years 
Where  crownless  they  should  lie  beside  their  peers. 
And  lo !  I  saw  there  was  one  less  to  fill, 
For  in  his  place  the  Old  Year  lay  at  last. 


QUESTIONINGS 

THE   PESSIMISTIC   ANNIHILATIOXIST 

FETTERED  to  earth  and  powerless  to  fly, 
I  envy  those  white  clouds  with  wide-stretched 

wings, 

Who,  scornful  of  us  earth-born,  grovelling  things, 
Exult  in  all  the  freedom  of  the  sky. 
For  what  of  liberty  have  such  as  I  ? 
What  is  the  comfort  aspiration  brings, 
And  what  the  glory  that  the  poet  sings? 
What  can  man  do  but  lay  him  down  and  die  ? 

79 


Bonnets? 

On  all  sides  are  we  closely  hedged  about. 

We  know  not  such  a  boon  as  liberty. 

Fools  we !  to  dream  of  ever  being  free. 
Our  highest  aspirations  end  in  doubt. 

Our  so-called  glory  is  a  mockery; 
And  Death  itself  is  but  a  blotting  out. 


THE   PANTHEIST 

What!     Death  a  blotting  out?     Yes,  thou  art  right; 

But  so  the  stars  are  blotted  out  at  morn, 

When  in  the  east  the  joyous  Day  is  born, 
And  from  her  presence  flees  the  gloomy  Night. 
The  stars  are  lost  in  more  effulgent  light. 

And  what  is  life  on  earth  but  night  forlorn? 

So  when  the  day  of  death  comes,  Night  is  shorn 
Of  its  small  glory  by  Day's  greater  might. 

Dost  thou  not  think  that  over  all  is  One  — 
A  God,  who  rules  amid  the  seeming  rout, 

Who  curves  the  steadfast  circle  of  the  sun, 
And  whirls  the  myriad  flaming  worlds  about? 

Canst  thou,  then,  think  thy  life  forever  done, 
Because  at  death  thy  candle  seems  put  out? 


80 


AEOLIAN   HARP  TONES 

"  solvitur  acris  hycmps  grata  vice  veris  et  favoni" 

THE  south  wind  thro'  my  open  window  blows. 
It  trembles  into  music  on  the  strings 
Of  an  yEolian  harp,  and  sweetly  sings 
A  quaint  and  mystic  song,  which  louder  grows, 
Then  dies  away,  until  so  soft  it  flows, 

We  hardly  hear  it.     And  the  voice  is  Spring's! 
She  to  the  waiting  Northland  comes !     She  brings 
The  modest  Mayflower  and  the  fragile  rose ! 

E'en  now  the  birds  among  the  trees  are  flying, 
And  now  the  willows  clothe  themselves  in  green, 
And  many  a  crocus  in  the  field  is  seen. 

Far  off  unseen  we  hear  the  wild  goose  crying, 

The  world  is  filled  with  Spring's  own  smile  serene; 

For  thus  she  greets  us,  swiftly  hither  hieing ! 

SAVONAROLA,   1498 

AS  on  some  noble  mountain  height  I  stand 
And  see  the  promise  of  a  golden  day, 
While  still  the  vales  below  are  cold  and  gray, 
And  night  hangs  brooding  o'er  a  sleeping  land. 

81 


I,  conscious  of  the  glory  near  at  hand, 
With  burning  eyes  of  faith,  exultant,  stay 
To  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  godlike  ray 

Ere  down  the  mount  it  leaps  in  progress  grand. 

Awake,  ye  dormant  nations,  now  awake  ! 

Behold  the  sun  of  Truth  is  risen  on  high  ! 
Out  from  the  bonds  of  superstition  break, 

And  claim  the  splendid  prize  of  liberty  ! 
Forget  the  dead  past  for  the  future's  sake; 

Where  falls  the  broken  tree,  there  let  it  lie  ! 

ELEGY 


air  is  full  of  mournful  melodies, 
As  if  the  birds  had  left  a  song  behind  — 
A  requiem  which  the  melancholy  wind, 
Transforming  to  ^Eolian  harmonies, 
Repeats  in  whispers  to  the  sobbing  trees. 
Hark  to  the  elegy  of  unwept  tears  — 
Of  struggling  hopes  and  of  despairing  fears  — 
A  poem  played  in  tender  minor  keys. 

The  summer  days  are  gone  —  the  birds  are  fled. 
Upon  the  field  and  hill  the  grass  is  brown, 
The  yellow  leaves  come  fluttering  softly  down, 

82 


And  rustle  on  the  path  beneath  the  tread. 

The  glories  which  were  once  the  Summer's  crown 
Are  vanished,  and  the  Summer  now  lies  dead ! 


The  trees  were  royal  in  their  autumn  gold  — 
Their  robes  were  rich  with  orange  and  with  red, 
Their  banners  proudly  to  the  winds  were  spread, 

And  to  the  Frost-king  waved  defiance  bold. 

Yet  now  no  more  their  boasted  power  they  hold. 
Their  little  day  of  royalty  was  sped, 
Their  little  gleam  of  glory  quickly  fled, 

As  passed  the  kingdoms  of  the  kings  of  old. 

With  leaden  clouds  the  sky  is  dark  and  gray; 

The  rain  falls  on  the  faded,  yellow  leaves. 

With  bitter  teardrops  saddened  Nature  grieves  — 
She  weeps  because  her  beauty  fades  away. 
Is  this  the  future  which  the  buds  of  May 

Gave  promise  of?     Ah,  smiling  Spring  deceives ! 

m 

Yet  as  the  day  is  drawing  to  its  close, 

And  as  the  Sun  sinks  in  the  arms  of  Night  — 
Among  the  clouds  appear  great  rifts  of  light, 

And  all  the  gray  is  glorified  with  rose, 

83 


The  hue  of  hope,  which  fainter,  fainter,  grows, 

Until  at  last  it  vanishes  from  sight. 

Then  on  the  yellow  sky,  divinely  bright, 
The  sickle  moon  above  the  horizon  glows. 

How  soon  forgot  the  sadness  of  the  day ! 

Night  hides  beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wings 
The  presence  of  the  demon  of  decay, 

And  throws  her  mantle  over  dying  things; 
The  spirit  of  life  and  love  stirs  in  our  clay, 

For  we   behold    Night's    star-dust   in    endles? 

rings 
And  only  see  the  stars  —  Night's  coronet! 


THE   DREAMERS 

SOME  men  are  dreamers  born;  their  mystic  souls 
In  visions  never  realized  are  wrapt. 
They  for  the  life  around  them  are  inapt, 
Like  hermits  idly  reading  mystic  scrolls. 
Where  angel  heads  glow  with  their  aureoles, 
Or  strange  lands  are  mysteriously  mapt 
With  mighty  streams  and  mountains  thundercapt, 
Or  where  the  organ  fugue  silently  rolls. 


Alas,  these  dreamers !     How  the  world  goes  by  them, 
With  all  its  living  joys  and  living  sorrows. 
And  as  they  watch  for  never-coming  morrows, 

They  lose  what  ought  to  bless  and  sanctify  them. 
For  while  the  Future  dazzling  promise  borrows, 

The  wasted  golden  Present  lingers  nigh  them. 


BEETHOVEN 


WHERE  art  thou  now,  O  master,  where  art  thou  ? 
Is  thy  soul  busied  with  the  harmonies 
Which  God  hides  in  those  rolling  stars  of  his, 
Silent  to  us  —  to  thee  apparent  now? 
Where  art  thou  now,  O  master,  where  art  thou  ? 
The  world  has  missed  thee  long,  and  none  there  is 
To  be,  like  thee,  the  Priest  of  Mysteries, 
And  wear  the  diadem  upon  the  brow. 

And  yet  the  world  is  full  of  thee.     Thy  name 

Is  synonym  for  highest  in  thine  art, 
And  brighter  thro'  the  coming  years  shall  shine. 
Would  I  might  add  a  little  wreath  of  mine  — 

Alas,  how  insignificant  a  part  — 
To  place  within  the  temple  of  thy  fame. 

85 


I  love  the  ocean's  glorious  symphonies 

In  nature's  everlasting  solitudes; 

The  deep  adagio  of  its  peaceful  moods; 
Its  light  allegro  when  the  white  caps  rise; 
Its  minor  when  the  sunset  zephyr  dies; 

Its  mighty  major  when  the  storm  cloud  broods 

And  sweeps  the  straining  harp-strings  of  the  woo 
And  far  on  high  the  foaming  water  flies ! 

So  when  Beethoven's  magic  music  swells, 
Like  voices  of  the  angels  heard  in  sleep, 
My  spirit  to  its  utmost  depths  is  stirred 
As  though  a  more  majestic  sea  I  heard, 
As  though  some  sunken  city's  silver  bells 
Swung  palpitating  in  the  purple  deep. 


THE   STORKS 

AT  midnight,  when  the  sleeping  world  is  still, 
And  bright-eyed  stars,  like  watchmen,  gu 

the  sky, 

And  look  down  calmly  from  their  posts  on  high 
O'er  field  and  forest,  ocean,  stream,  and  hill, — 

86 


From  ruined  tower  and  long-deserted  mill 

Uprise  the  friendly,  wide-winged  storks,  and  fly 
Straight  to  the  sunny  lands  which  southward  lie, 

Beyond  man's  ken,  beyond  all  thought  of  ill. 

Man  would  not  harm  them :  they  are  sacred  things. 
Their  scarlet  bills  and  scarlet  legs  are  known 
From  Nile  to  Ganges;  and  from  Rhine  to  Rhone 

Is  heard  the  flapping  of  their  dusky  wings. 

They  are  affection's  symbol;  for,  Love  sings, 
The  mother  stork  will  perish  for  her  own. 


THE  REIGN   OF   SATURN 

"  aurea  prima  sata  cst  aetas  qua  -vindice  nullo 
sponte  sua,  sine  lege>fidem  rectumque  colebat" 

THE  legend  says  that  in  the  golden  time 
When   Saturn's   sceptre    blest   the   blooming 

earth, 

Men's  hearts  were  filled  with  overflowing  mirth, 
And  love  and  peace  dwelt  in  that  happy  clime. 
For  never  yet  had  thought  of  war  or  crime 
In  simple  guileless  bosoms  had  its  birth, 
And  never  yet  had  cruel,  wasting  Dearth 
Dared  enter  where  reigned  Plenty  in  her  prime. 

87 


Men  lived  as  brothers,  and  their  lives  were  long; 

Their   lives   were   free    from   discord,    free   from 

care. 
All  day  the  woodlands  echoed  to  the  song; 

And  sounds  of  feasting  filled  the  evening  air. 
And  often  came  the  glorious  gods  among 

These  happy  men,  their  sweet  delights  to  share. 


"  postquam  Saturno  tenebrosa  in  Tartar  a  misso 
sub  Jove  mundus  erat" 

But  Jove  against  his  father  Saturn  rose, 

And  harshly  drove  him  from  his  ancient  throne. 

Then  wandered  forth  the  crownless  god  alone, 
His  hoary  head  bent  low  with  weight  of  woes, 
Leaving  his  kingdom  to  his  sons, —  his  foes. 

Sad  was  it  for  the  world  when  he  was  gone. 

Peace    from   the   mourning   earth,    and   joy  were 

flown. 

War  on  the  heels  of  Hatred  followed  close, 
And  Famine  spread  her  black  wings  o'er  the  land. 

O  then,  those  miserable  men  were  fain 

To  have  their  father  Saturn  come  again; 
Were  fain  to  have  the  feet  of  Plenty  stand 
In  her  old  Temple ;  and  dread  Famine  bound. 

Alas !  alas !  their  wishes  were  in  vain. 

88 


AT  MIDNIGHT'S  MYSTIC   HOUR 


AT  midnight's  mystic  hour  I  climbed  the  hill 
Whose  farther  slope  dips  gently  to  the  shore. 
Like  a  vast  prayer  the  solemn  ocean's  roar 
Rose  ceaseless  from  the  rocks;  all  else  was  still  — 
So  still  that  I  could  hear  the  young  grass  thrill 

As  from  the  whispering  night  air,  warm  once  more, 
It  won  the  impulse  from  the  ground  to  soar  — 
As  if,  poor  rooted  thing,  it  might  at  will ! 

A  few  great  stars  begemmed  the  tender  sky, 
And,  like  the  swords  of  serried  Seraphim 

Drawn  up  for  battle  far  away  from  earth, 
The  Northern  Lights  flamed  to  the  zenith  high 
And  swept  in  triumph  to  the  horizon's  rim, 
While  in  the  east  a  meteor  died  in  birth. 


I  flung  myself  upon  the  dewy  ground 

And  fixt  mine  eyes  upon  the  mighty  maze 
Of  twinkling  constellations,  and  the  blaze 
Of  flaming  swords  that  crossed  without  a  sound  — 
So  far,  so  weird,  so  changeful,  in  profound 

89 


gxmttrt* 

Obedience  to  the  unknown  Power  that  sways 
The  universe,  and  that  the  planets  praise 
As  swift  they  circle  in  their  endless  round. 

There  as  I  prostrate  lay  and  strove  to  scan 
The  scope  of  those  fierce  forces  bound  to  law, 
And  felt  the  joy  of  inexpressible  awe 

At  such  a  divine  weft  of  rhythmic  plan, 
A  tiny  night  moth  fluttering  by  I  saw 

And  wondered  if  God  had  less  care  for  man. 

A   PAGAN   SONNET 

THE  silent  mountains,  purple  robed,  like  kings, 
Stand  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  nigfat- 

They  feel  her  solemn  presence  as  the  light 
Fades  slowly  from  their  crowns.     The  sun-god  flings 
His  last  red  beams,  tingeing  the  silver  wings 

Of  clouds  rejoicing  in  their  eastward  flight. 

Will  they  be  first  to  see  his  chariot  bright 
Emerging  from  the  ocean,  when  he  brings 
His  bride,  the  Day,  to  glad  the  world  again? 

Ah !  soon  they  vanish  from  our  yearning  sight, 
In  darkness  flying  on,  their  fate  the  wind. 
The  rosy  hues  of  hope  are  fond  and  vain. 

Fate  is  relentless;  love  is  quenched  in  night. 
Farewell,  ye  clouds,  to  your  own  future  blind  1 

90 


EVENING 

THE  crimson  glow  has  faded  from  the  west; 
Deep  shadows  lie  along  the  glassy  stream, 

In  whose  cool  depths  green  banks  and  daisies  dream 
Of  green  banks  and  of  daisies  which  are  blest 
With  real  existence  and  with  perfect  rest, 

While  they  themselves  are  not,  but  only  seem. 

The  katydids  pipe  up  their  cheerful  theme; 
The  bird  is  sleeping  in  her  woven  nest, 
And  near  her  sighs  the  melancholy  breeze. 
The  fire-flies,  like  lost,  wandering  Pleiades, 
With  intermittent  light  dart  through  the  trees. 
The  evening  stars  smile  down  with  radiant  eyes, 
And  fiery  swords  wave  on  the  northern  skies, 
As  if  to  guard  the  Aurora's  Paradise. 


IN   A   CANOE 

i 

DOWN  in  the  sea  caves  sinks  the  dying  sun, 
The  restless  waves  are  tinged  with  Tyrian  hue, 
And  purple  clouds  are  hung  upon  the  blue 
Of  heaven,  until  the  heaven  and  sea  are  one. 
Where  ends  the  sea?     Where  is  the  sky  begun? 
I,  floating  in  an  Indian  canoe, 
With  all  these  glories  round  me,  with  the  view 

91 


Bonnets 

Expanding  as  the  waves  I  ride  upon 

Lift  up  their  haughty  heads,  could  I  not  sail, 

Until  I  reached  the  line  where  sea  and  sky 

Are  blended  into  one  infinity? 
Could  I  not  float  out  on  the  sea  of  space, 

And  learn  new  wonders  from  behind  the  veil 
Which  hides  from  us  God's  everlasting  face? 


The  day  fades  and  the  solemn,  mystic  night 
Broods  with  her  thousand  stars  upon  the  ocean; 
The   winds   are   hushed, —  calmed   is    the   waves' 
commotion; 

The  crescent  moon  pours  out  her  jar  of  light 

Upon  the  waters.     Clouds  as  silvery  white 
As  angels'  wings,  float  with  the  softest  motion 
Across  the  sky  and  pay  their  deep  devotion 

Unto  their  queen,  enthroned  on  heaven's  height. 

O  Sea  —  thou  symbol  of  almighty  power! 

O  Night  —  thou  majesty  of  majesties! 
My  soul  is  humbled  at  this  solemn  hour, 

Surrounded  by  thine  awful  mysteries. 
May  my  vain  yearning  slowly  die  away 
As  dim  Night  took  the  sceptre  from  the  Day. 

92 


THE   STORM 

FROM  some  far  valley  of  the  West  arise 
The  storm  clouds  like  the  hordes  of  Tamerlane, 
And  marching  on  in  awful  silence  gain 
The  zenith-posted  fortress  of  the  skies. 
The  courier  wind  on  winged  courser  flies 
And  brings  the  pelting  volleys  of  the  rain. 
And  then  the  loud-voiced  thunder  bursts  amain 
And  echoes  on  the  circling  hills,  and  dies. 

The  mighty  hosts  of  Nature  cannot  spare. 

They  hasten  on  to  work  their  destined  death  — 
Across  the  summer  seas  the  darkness  sweeps, 
The  white- sailed  boats  go  down  before  its  breath; 
From  heaven  the  jagged  lightning  blindly  leaps 
Nor  heeds  the  agony  of  human  prayer. 


BREEZES 

SOME  people  meet  us  like  the  mountain  air, 
And  thrill  our  souls  with  freshness  and  delight; 
And  others  are  like  cooling  winds  of  night 
To  fan  the  heated  brow  of  busy  care; 

93 


And  some  are  like  the  summer  breezes,  rare 

With  perfumes,  breathing  from  the  gardens  bright 
Where  flowers  are  blooming,  far  beyond  our  sight. 

And  so  we  know  the  gardens  must  be  fair. 

And  such  we  welcome  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  gentle  melancholy  seasons  mirth, 

When  fading  tints  across  the  gray  sky  run, 
And  darker  shadows  brood  upon  the  earth. 
Then  deep  heart  confidences  have  their  birth, 

And  holy,  life-long  friendships  are  begun. 


THE   NETHERLAND   MARTYRS,   1535 


AMID  the  flames  their  souls  were  full  of  cheer, 
And,  facing  the  dark  mystery  of  death, 
Unflinchingly  they  clung  unto  their  faith, 
No  whit  relenting  at  the  beck  of  fear. 
And  while  the  crowd  stood  round  to  mock  and  jeer, 
These  martyrs  blest  them  with  their  dying  breath, 
Remembering  what  the  Holy  Scripture  saith :  — 
For  they  were  noble  men  although  austere. 

94 


They  died  —  unhonored  for  their  constancy. 

Brave  men  were  they;    yet  no  one  mourned  or 

wept. 
They  suffered  for  the  sake  of  liberty; 

And  in  their  death,  their  deathless  fame  is  kept. 

But  had  they  lived,  their  story  would  have  slept 
Uncared  for  in  the  tomb  of  history. 


The  faith  they  held  was  bigoted  and  blind. 
The  God  they  worshipped  was  a  cruel  God. 
A  rugged  and  a  weary  path  they  trod; 

And  life's  delights  they,  murmuring  not,  resigned. 

So  when  the  summons  came  to  leave  behind 
Life's  bitterness,  they  bowed  beneath  the  rod, 
And  gladly  laid  aside  the  fettering  clod  — • 

A  martyr's  never-fading  crown  to  find. 

Their  names  are  lost  to  us,  but  their  example 
Flames  like  a  beacon  thro'  the  mist  of  ages, 

And  bids  us  bravely  stand  when  men  would  trample 
Upon  our  faith,  and  overthrow  our  altars; 

When  fiery  persecution  round  us  rages, 
And  when  our  courage  under  trial  falters. 


95 


SPANISH   SONNETS 


FR  many  a  day  my  heart  no  song  has  sung, 
For  many  a  day  my  lips  no  music  made; 
The  harp  which  oft  of  old  my  fingers  played 
Is  silent,  with  its  silver  strings  unstrung. 

Ah,  wearily  the  sad  days  drag  along, 

With  never  a  ray  of  joy  their  gloom  to  cheer; 
Alone  I  sit  and  mingle  sigh  with  tear; 

Alone  I  sit  and  nurse  my  fancied  wrong. 

But  mayhap  she,  the  cause  of  all  my  woe, 
Is  grieving  that  her  lover  comes  not  near, 
Is  sadly  wondering  why  she  doth  not  hear 
The  low  notes  of  his  dulcet  serenade 
Beneath  her  window  ere  the  sweet  stars  fade  — 

Come,  heart  of  mine,  I  pray  thee  let  us  go. 


Beneath  my  lady's  window  soft  I  crept; 

The  music  of  far  waters  lulled  the  night; 

On  high  the  queen  moon  walked  in  garments  bright, 
And  up  the  east  lordly  Orion  swept. 
Beneath  my  lady's  window  watch  I  kept, 


And  let  the  slow  hours  wing  their  silent  flight, 
The  while  I  envied  e'en  the  moonbeams  white 
That  kissed  my  spotless  lady  while  she  slept. 

The  rosy  flush  of  morn  was  swiftly  stealing 
Across  the  mountains  as  I  turned  away, 

And  lo,  I  saw  her  by  her  casement  kneeling, 
With  palms  together  prest  to  greet  the  day; 

And  matin-bells  across  the  fields  came  pealing, 
And  all  the  world  in  glittering  sunlight  lay. 

m 

I  hied  me  home  and  sang  my  songs  once  more; 
I  took  my  dusty  harp  and  tuned  it  well, 
And  when  I  touched  its  strings,  there  came  a  spell 

Upon  me  such  as  song-birds  feel  that  soar 

High  toward  the  sun  and  all  their  heart  outpour 
In  sweet,  melodious  strains,  which  rise  and  swell, 
And  to  the  world  their  rapturous  joyance  tell. 

So  played  I  as  I  ne'er  had  played  before. 

For  though  I  had  but  seen  her  from  afar, 

Yet  did  my  heart  know  that  she  prayed  for  me. 

For  mystic  soul-communings  oft  there  are, 

More  faithful  than  mere  human  speech  can  be. 

And  ere  I  saw  her,  from  the  pole  a  star 
Fell,  like  God's  benediction,  silently. 

97 


Bonnets? 


IV 


The  golden  moments  fly  like  yellow  bees, 

Which  come  with  honey  from  the  daisied  field, 
The  golden  moments  all  their  sweetness  yield, 

Their  flowery  sweetness,  honeyed  memories. 

Ah !  memories,  too  sweet  for  perfect  peace, 
Unless  I  share  them;  yet  my  lips  are  sealed. 
Would  not  the  charm  be  lost  if  I  revealed 

That  name,  to  me  so  full  of  harmonies? 

No  hour,  no  moment,  in  the  livelong  day, 

But  is  weighed  down  with  honeyed  thoughts  of 
thee. 

Imprinted  on  the  night's  page,  dim  and  gray, 
Thy  smiling  face,  thine  eyes,  thy  form,  I  see. 

The  music  of  the  ocean  far  away, 

Without  thy  name  in  it,  discord  would  be. 


I  wonder  if  none  wonder  why  I  smile, 
As  thinking  of  my  love  I  walk  the  street, 
And  see  not,  neither  hear  the  folk  I  greet, 

But  only  see  my  one  love  all  the  while. 

98 


I  traverse  many  a  long  and  joyous  mile 

Of  fragrant  groves,  whose  checkered  branches  meet; 

They  know,  they  tell  me  of  my  maiden  sweet; 
My  heart  with  songs  of  her  the  birds  beguile. 

'T  was  only  yesterday  I  saw  my  love, 
'Twas  only  yestermorn  I  saw  my  own, 
Beside  her  open  casement  sitting  lone, 

With  eyes  fixt  on  the  mountain  heights  above. 

She  saw  me  not,  and  I  gazed  from  afar, 

As  one  who  worships  the  pale  evening  star. 


VI 


The  deepest,  crudest  love  is  love  unspoken, 

Which  battles  with  itself  —  passion  with  passion; 

White  fire  with  lurid  fire  —  in  such  fierce  fashion 
That  love's  self  dies,  and  lo!  the  heart  is  broken. 
And  yet  the  steadfast  spirit  gives  no  token, 

Tho'  red-rose  cheeks  may  pale,  tho'  lips  grow  ashen; 

Like  thin-faced  monks  who  lash  without  compassion 
Their  quivering  limbs  to  punish  sins  unspoken. 

Keep  silence,  oh,  my  heart!  be  thou  no  traitor; 
Betray  not  thy  wild  struggles,  thy  wild  yearning. 
Yea,  let  thy  agony  seethe  as  in  a  crater 

99 


Hidden  by  flowering  vines  far  down  is  burning 
The  lava  seen  but  by  the  All-discerning. 

Great  is  thy  love,  fond  heart  —  my  will  is  greater. 


VII 

Maybe  in  God's  own  time,  when  time  is  past, 
Love  incomplete  shall  be  made  full  and  round 
By  perfect  joining  of  lost  parts,  and  crowned 

By  the  rich  jewel  of  God's  love  at  last. 

But  why  should  we  endeavor  to  forecast 
The  problem  of  the  future?     Life  is  bound 
With  adamantine  chains.     We  hear  no  sound 

From  those  who  vanish  in  death's  awful  vast. 

Were  it  not  best,  then,  once,  only  once,  to  speak  — 
To  kiss;  then  part  as  if  the  past  were  not? 

Life  has  no  deeper  vengeance  on  men's  hearts  to  wreak. 
Nay,  silent  suffering  is  a  nobler  lot. 

I  will  be  strong  because  I  am  so  weak; 

Though  I  should  die  for  Love's  sake  —  for  Love's 
sake. 

VIII 

How  the  fresh  raindrop  on  the  grass-blade  flashes ! 
Behold  the  sunbeams  on  the  river  dancing ! 
See  the  swift  swallows  thro'  the  deep  sky  glancing ! 

100 


Hark,  how  the  fountain  in  the  arbor  flashes ! 

How  Nature  mocks  us  as  we  sit  in  ashes ! 

I  thought  she  wept  with  me  —  now  is  she  lancing 
Her  bitter  shafts  of  sunshine  down,  enhancing 

My  griefs!     O  Nature,  how  thy  joyance  clashes! 

Yet  why?     The  dimmest  star-heart  sympathizes 
With  our  distress;  and  mayhap  through  our  sorrows 

Our  poor  love  purer,  higher,  nobler  rises. 

Love  on  in  silence,  then,  O  heart !  and  grieve  not, 
For  after  sad  to-days  come  happier  morrows. 

That  love  is  lost  believe  not  —  oh,  believe  not! 


rx 

The  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  purple  hills 
And  delicate  clouds  in  golden  radiance  glow; 
The  splendor  brightens  o'er  the  sea  below, 

And  all  the  conscious  world  with  beauty  thrills. 

The  sea  is  calm;  the  sighing  south  wind  stills, 
The  ripples  on  the  beach  scarce  come  and  go, 
As  slowly  up  the  sands  the  waters  flow 

And  the  full  tide  the  crescent  harbor  fills. 

Alone  I  sit  upon  the  rocks,  alone 

And  watch  the  light  upon  the  headland  far  — 
It  kindles  like  the  silvery  evening  star. 

101 


The  phantom  ships  sail  on  and  fade  away 
As  night  broods  o'er  the  silence  of  the  bay; 
And  still  I  sit  and  think  of  thee,  my  own. 


PETRARCA  DE  SENECTUTE  SUA:  A  PARA 
PHRASE 

quas  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit  in  aevo 
perlegis  hie  lachrymas,  et  quod pharetratus  acuta 
ille  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  cuspide  volnus. 
omnia  paulatim  consumit  longior  aetasy 
vivendoque  simul  morimur,  rapimurque  manendo. 
ipse  mihi  collatus  enim  non  ille  videbor ; 
frons  alia  est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago, 
voxque  aliud  sonat : 

pectore  nunc  gelido  calidos  miseremur  amantes 
iamque  arsisse  pudet.      Veteres  tranquilla  tumultus 
mens  horret,  relegensque  alium  putat  ista  locutum. 

The  tears  which  in  my  callow  youth  I  shed 

Long  since  are  dried;  the  wound  made  by  the  dart 
Of  Love,  the  archer,  on  my  boyish  heart 

Is  healed.     The  summer  of  my  life  is  dead, 

And  one  by  one  its  idle  joys  are  fled. 
Like  Death,  our  daily  living  bids  us  part 
From  all  we  once  held  dear.     O  Time,  thou  art 

Our  Fate,  which  drives  us  with  relentless  tread ! 

102 


The  old  self  that  we  knew  is  now  no  more. 

The  brow  is  wan;  fond  habits  suffer  change; 

The  mind  has  other  eyes;  the  voice  is  strange. 

Our  cold  hearts  pity  lovers  passionate ; 

We  blush  that  once  we  burned.     Old  loves  we  hate; 
And  former  vows  we  deem  another  swore. 


THE    RIVER 

THE  river  is  a  moody  human  thing; 
It  laughs  whenever  the  sky  is  sunny  blue, 
While  from  the  sky  it  takes  a  richer  hue. 
Nothing  it  does  all  day  but  laugh  and  sing, 
And  toss  its  diamonds  like  a  wayward  king. 
And  if  the  day  is  dark  and  sad,  then  too 
The  river  mourns  the  hours  of  sadness  through, 
And  seems  dissolved  in  tears  of  murmuring. 

It  is  a  sympathetic,  soulless  soul  — 

A  creature  touched  by  every  passing  breath, 
For  future  sunshine  it  has  little  faith  — 

Remembers  not  the  past.     Now  is  its  whole. 

Though  it  knows  not,  it  rushes  to  its  goal  — 
Its  goal  the  mighty  ocean's  living  death. 


103 


feonnrtsi 

PROPHECIES 

SWEET  is  the  homage  which  the  south  winds 
show  — 

Sweet  is  the  piney  incense  which  they  bring 
To  delicate,  proud  harebells,  as  they  swing 
Their  graceful  heads,  a-nodding  to  and  fro. 
The  organ  tones  o'  the  sombre  pines  is  low  — 
Low  the  prophetic  hymn  their  branches  sing. 
Is  it  a  sound  of  the  ocean  murmuring? 
Does  it  reach  the  river  in  its  ceaseless  flow? 

Beneath  the  brooding  banks  the  waters  stay; 
Entranced,  they  listen  to  the  oracle 
Which  of  the  sea  the  sun-fleckt  pines  foretell  — 

Singing  the  doom  to  which  they  haste  away. 

Thus  mortals,  hurrying  to  Eternity, 

Catch  sometimes  a  faint  sound  of  its  vast  sea. 


HERE   AND   THERE 

THE  sunshine  slants  across  wide  fields  of  green, 
The  wind  drives  bending  billows  o'er  the 

grass 

Chased  by  the  shadows  of  white  clouds  that  pass 
Like  kindly  dragons  down  the  blue  serene. 

104 


Afar  the  dreamy  mountains  hedge  the  scene, 
Ethereal  in  their  opaline  transparent  mass : 
Not  with  my  naked  eye  nor  with  my  glass 

Can  I  redeem  the  miles  that  lie  between. 

If  on  yon  cloudlike  mountains  I  should  stand, 
The  land  would  lie  as  though  upon  my  palm  — 
The  rivers  —  silver  ribbons,  the  blue  lakes  calm 

Like  mirrors  echoing  sunny  gleams  of  skies; 

And  far  away  my  village,  like  a  band 

Of  little  pearls,  where  this  fair  valley  lies. 


105 


9In  jttore  ^etioug 
¥ 


A  RUSSIAN    FANTASY 

O'ER  the  yellow  crocus  on  the  lawn 
Floats  a  light  white  butterfly. 
Breezes  waft  it !     See,  't  is  gone ! 
Dushka,  little  soul,  when  didst  thou  die? 

SUNSET   FANCIES 

WHERE  glows  the  sunset 
Like  a  fiery  ocean 
Do  you  see  the  islands, 

The  Hesperides? 
Green  are  their  palm  trees, 
Somnolent  in  motion, 
Musical  in  silence, 

Bending  in  the  breeze. 

Many  are  the  herds  there 

On  the  meadows  straying  — 
Snowy-fleeced  sheep, 

Wide-horned  kine. 
Many  are  the  red  deer 

On  the  hillsides  playing; 
See  how  they  leap ! 

How  their  antlers  shine ! 

109 


See,  in  the  tree-tops 

Splendid  birds  are  flashing, 
Living  gleams  of  color, 

Living  tongues  of  flame  ! 
See  the  lofty  fountains 
Musically  plashing  — 

Diamonds  are  duller, 

Every  drop's  a  gem ! 

Shaded  by  palm  groves, 
Halls  of  alabaster 

Strangely  carved  with  stories 

Of  departed  days, 
Sculptured  by  chisel 

Of  no  earthly  master, 

Glow  with  golden  glories, 

With  precious  stones  ablaze. 

They  are  the  mansions 
Of  the  old  Immortals, 
Exiles  from  earth 

Long  centuries  ago. 
Amaranthine  wreaths 

Crown  their  pearly  portals; 
Never-dying  mirth 

Is  theirs,  never  thought  of  woe. 


IIO 


spore  £>mous?  £poo& 


There  Ganymede, 

For  the  gods  reclining 
On  golden  couches, 

Bears  the  jewelled  bowl; 
There  the  ancient  poets, 

In  white  raiment  shining, 
With  rhythmical  touches 

Wake  the  harp's  deep  soul. 

There  is  Athene 

Standing  by  her  altars, 
Grave  and  sublime, 

Watching  o'er  her  fane. 
Faith  in  her  godhead 

Never  wanes  or  falters; 
She  in  good  time 

Will  be  worshipped  again. 

There  is  the  Temple 

Of  the  good  Apollo, 

Where  light  like  wine 

Spouts  in  living  jets. 
Round  the  vast  rotunda 

Scarce  the  eye  can  follow 
To  the  heights  divine 
Of  starred  minarets. 


I II 


3|n 


Out  in  the  ocean 

Of  the  sunset  glowing 

Have  you  seen  this  vision  — 

Those  Islands  of  the  Blest? 
Have  you  seen  the  temples, 

Seen  the  fountains  flowing, 
And  the  hills  Elysian 
In  the  purple  west? 

Now  darkness  gathers; 

Night  with  sable  pinions 
Forever  shuts  away 

That  glimpse  of  Paradise. 
Jealously  guarding 

Her  infinite  dominions, 
Keeping  from  day 

The  secrets  of  the  skies. 


THE   PALACE   OF   PLEASURE 

WE  have  read  in  legends  of  old 
Of  palaces  built  in  a  night; 
With  walls  of  glittering  gold, 

And  roofs  of  crystalline  light; 
With  stores  of  treasures  untold, 

Collected  from  deep  and  from  height. 

112 


31n  spore  £>mou£ 


At  sunset  the  site  is  a  waste 

Of  tangled,  unfructified  ground, 

By  fens  and  quagmires  defaced, 

Where  reptiles  and  serpents  abound  :  — 

A  paradise  spoiled  and  debased; 
No  rose  sheds  its  fragrance  around. 

At  midnight  assemble  the  powers  :  — 
The  gnomes  and  the  djinns  from  the  earth, 

The  fairies  that  lurk  in  the  flowers, 
The  Titans  that  forge  works  of  worth, 

The  weavers  of  magical  bowers, 
To  build  the  beautiful  birth. 

In  silent  and  cheerful  array, 

In  orderly  cohort  and  line, 
The  workers  their  master  obey, 

By  his  will,  without  signal  or  sign, 
The  wizard  exhibits  the  way, 

As  tho'  by  a  wisdom  divine. 

The  briers  and  brambles  are  banned, 
The  marsh  is  transformed  to  a  lake, 

Tall  trees  on  the  avenues  stand, 
Clear  fountains  in  rivulets  break. 

A  new  paradise  blooms  in  the  land 
Ere  the  birds  in  the  morning  awake. 

"3 


3fln 


Foundations  of  marble  are  laid; 

Like  visions  arise  the  fair  walls; 
Silken  tapestries  now  are  displayed; 

Long  mirrors  show  jewel-set  halls; 
The  chambers,  richly  arrayed, 

Are  thronged  with  obedient  thralls. 

And  thus  when  the  magical  car 

Brings  home  the  prince  and  his  bride, 

All  things  in  readiness  are 

To  welcome  their  lord  and  their  pride. 

And  music  swells,  echoing  far, 

And  banners  and  pennants  float  wide. 

The  Palace  of  Pleasure  is  done. 

In  a  night  it  is  built.     In  the  day 
It  will  vie  with  the  light  of  the  sun. 

In  an  hour  it  may  vanish  away. 
So  joy  like  a  cobweb  is  spun. 

The  prince  and  his  bride  —  where  are  they? 


ROCKY   NOOK 


THROUGH  his  breezy  bower  of  leaves 
Gleams  the  golden  oriole, 
Pouring  out  his  joyous  soul 
As  his  hanging  nest  he  weaves. 


114 


3(ln 


In  the  sunny  fields  the  quail, 
Hiding  deep  mid  nodding  flowers, 
Whistles  for  the  coming  showers  — 

Cheerful  tho'  his  omens  fail. 

O'er  the  meadow  hovering, 

Near  the  winding  brooklet's  brink, 
Trills  the  lyric  bobolink  — 

Our  Anakreon  on  the  wing. 

See  !  upon  the  topmost  leaf 
Of  the  maple  on  the  hill 
He  is  swinging,  singing  still, 

Like  a  soul  that  knows  no  grief. 

How  the  air  with  perfume  swoons  ! 
Humming  dart  the  yellow  bees 
From  the  flower-clad  apple  trees; 

All  their  lives  are  honeymoons. 

Insects  chirp  amid  the  grass, 
Swallows  twitter  as  they  fly 
Arrowlike  across  the  sky, 

And  the  crows  call  as  they  pass. 

Thro'  the  night  the  whippoorwill 
Threatens  from  the  linden  tree, 
And  the  voices  of  the  sea 

All  the  solemn  silence  fill. 


31n  spore  Serious; 


Silvery  music  from  the  brook, 
Rapturous  singing  from  the  field. 
Golden  moments  dost  thou  yield, 

To  thy  lovers,  Rocky  Nook. 


FROM   A   BALCONY 


I  SEE  a  patch  of  woodland, 
A  hill  which  hovels  crown, 
A  wide  brook  overflowing 
With  waters  dull  and  brown. 

Then  black  lines  of  a  railway 
With  swift  trains  thundering  by; 

Like  comets  manned  by  demons 
In  headlong  speed  they  fly. 

Below  me  is  a  courtyard, 

Unshaded  by  a  tree; 
A  mournful  bush  in  the  corner 

Is  its  only  shrubbery. 

And  there  a  withered  leaflet 
Spins  round  in  the  fitful  wind, 

Like  a  sad  gray  ghost  imprisoned, 
No  exit  can  it  find. 


116 


31n 


The  type  of  many  a  mortal, 

That  wan  leaf  has  no  rest, 
And  I  think  that  a  grave  in  the  churchyard 

For  you  and  me  were  best. 

AURORA  BOREALIS 

IN  the  cold  midwinter  night, 
O'er  the  frosty  northern  sky 
Gather  spectral  armies  bright. 
See  them  march  and  wheel  and  fight  — 
Fight  and  fall  and  die  ! 

So  the  mystic  hosts  of  thought 

Thro'  my  soul  at  midnight  gleam; 
Valiant  battles  then  are  fought, 
Doughty  deeds  are  swiftly  wrought. 
Is  it  all  a  dream? 

TWO   SUNSETS 

ONCE  before  I  saw  a  sunset 
From  this  rocky  hill, 
Saw  the  valley  deep  and  misty, 
Saw  the  mountains  blue  and  still, 
And  the  crimson  clouds  above  them 
With  the  sunbeams  thrill. 

117 


3(|n  spore  Serious 


But  'twas  not  so  much  the  sunset 

Which  ensouled  the  place, 
As  it  was  the  glow  and  glory 
Beaming  from  thy  raptured  face, 
Wistfully,  unconscious  of  me, 
Gazing  into  space. 

Now  once  more  I  see  the  sunset 
(Years  have  had  their  flight), 
See  the  misty  valley  darkling, 
See  the  mountain's  purple  light, 
And  the  dusky-shadowed  pinions 
Of  the  eagle,  Night. 

But  alone  I  see  the  glory  ! 

Dearest,  thou  art  far  ! 
And  the  clouds  grow  black  and  heavy 
Shutting  out  the  evening  star, 
And  my  heart  is  sad  and  weary, 

Crushed  by  Fate's  stern  bar. 

Though  I  know  that  day  returneth, 

And  the  night  is  gain, 
Yet  I  cannot  lift  the  burden 
Of  the  present's  grief  and  pain. 
Darkness  closes  in  around  me  — 

Courage,  trust,  are  vain. 

118 


TO   A   BEAUTIFUL   NUN 

FAIR  Nun,  that  slowly  wanderest 
Thro'  byways  of  the  town, 
Tell  me  the  thoughts  thou  ponderest, 
Demure,  with  eyes  cast  down. 

The  world  around  is  beautiful; 

No  joy  to  thee  it  brings, 
Because  thy  spirit  dutiful 

Is  set  on  heavenly  things. 

The  sunlight  is  not  vanity, 

Nor  pleasure  sign  of  ill; 
Bright  greetings  of  urbanity 

May  tender  heartstrings  thrill. 

But  all  these  things  are  naught  to  thee; 

Such  visions  thou  must  shun. 
Another  code  is  taught  to  thee, 

Thou  solemn-vestured  Nun. 

Thy  talents, —  make  no  use  of  them 
To  win  the  world's  applause; 

Such  use  were  but  abuse  of  them 
To  hurt  Religion's  cause. 

119 


Thy  voice,  tho'  rich  and  glorious, 
Must  not  in  mirth  take  part; 

Thy  hands  must  be  laborious 
In  charity,  not  art. 

Thy  face  would  grace  society, 
Thy  hand  be  sought  in  love; 

But  all  thy  realm  is  piety; 
Thy  heart  is  fixt  above. 

Yet  calm  and  unregretfully 

Thou  goest  on  thy  way, 
As  tho'  desire  were  met,  fully, 

In  that  one  word  "obey." 

No  thought  of  earthly  joy  disturbs, 
For  earthly  love  must  cease; 

No  trivial  annoy  disturbs 
The  current  of  thy  peace. 

Surrounded  by  thy  purity 

As  by  an  angel's  arm, 
Thou  passest  in  security 

Amid  all  sin  and  harm. 

Sweet  bride  of  heaven,  abidingly 
Thy  thoughts  all  heavenward  flow; 

And  thus  alone,  confidingly, 
Thou  walkest  here  below. 


120 


31n 


The  sombre  garb  them  wearest  here, 

The  rosary,  the  cross,  — 
Symbol  of  what  thou  bearest  here,  — 

Make  all  things  seem  but  dross. 

Above,  the  wedding  raiment  waits, 
The  crown,  the  promised  spouse; 

For  all  the  loss  the  payment  waits, 
The  answer  to  thy  vows. 

For  this  thou  hast  forsaken  all 
Thy  beauty  might  have  won; 

For  this  alone  hast  taken  all 
The  sorrows  of  a  Nun. 

Fair  Nun,  my  heart  acknowledges 

A  pang  to  see  thy  face. 
I  care  not  for  theologies, 

I  only  care  for  grace. 

And  yet  I  would  not  change  thy  lot 

To  that  of  mortal  bride. 
Let  God  alone  arrange  thy  lot 

And  in  thy  heart  abide. 


121 


3|n  spore  Venous 

PERVERTED 


A  LITTLE,  innocent,  white-winged  Cloud 
£~\     Flew  out  across  the  summer  sea, 
And  there  was  met  by  a  surly  crowd 

Of  Fogs  and  Tempests.     She  tried  to  flee. 

"Now  join  us,"  cried  a  menacing  form, 
"Or  else  thy  beauty  we  destroy!  " 

When  back  she  came  with  the  hosts  of  storm 
Destruction  was  her  only  joy. 


THE  SHEPHERDS 

i 

SHEPHERDS,  have  ye  heard  the  story? 
Shepherds,  did  ye  see  the  light? 
All  the  sky  was  filled  with  glory; 
Hill  and  vale  were  bright. 


Shepherds,  we  our  flocks  were  keeping 
On  the  upland  pasture  ground; 

All  the  world  around  was  sleeping; 
There  was  not  a  sound ! 

122 


spore 


ni 


As  we  stood  alone  and  listened 
To  the  silence  near  and  far, 

Suddenly  before  us  glistened, 
In  the  East,  a  star. 


IV 


Brighter  in  its  swift  ascension 
Than  the  planet  or  the  moon, 

Soon  it  claimed  our  rapt  attention: 
Night  was  turned  to  noon. 


In  affright  we  drew  together, 
All  we  shepherds  on  the  hill, 

And  our  wonder  questioned  whether 
It  should  bode  us  ill. 


VI 

When  it  came  and  hung  suspended, 

Blazing  over  Bethlehem : 
Every  rock,  with  radiance  splendid, 

Sparkled  like  a  gem ! 


123 


VII 


When  we  found  ourselves  surrounded 
With  a  bright  angelic  throng, 

And  above  us,  round  us,  sounded 
Loud  a  wondrous  song. 


VIII 


Harps  of  gold  and  crowns  undying, 
Robes  of  white  and  jewelled  wings! 

On  our  faces  we  are  lying 
While  the  seraph  sings : 


IX 


"  Peace  on  earth !     Good  will  to  mortals ! 

Christ  the  Lord  this  day  is  born; 
He  hath  passed  the  heavenly  portals, 

Glorious  is  this  morn ! 


"Blessed  tiding  to  all  nations! 

God  hath  sent  to  ransom  them. 
Go  and  find  him !     Loud  ovations 

Sing  in  Bethlehem !  " 


124 


3]n  spore  g>rriou$  £poo& 


Then  the  mighty  angel  chorus 
Clove  the  air  with  sweet  acclaim; 

Swelled  the  hymn,  resounding  o'er  us, 
Hailing  Jesus'  name  ! 


xn 


Shepherds,  we  have  straightway  started, 
Leaving  on  the  fields  our  sheep, 

To  discover,  joyful-hearted, 
Where  the  Babe  doth  sleep. 


XIII 


Seek  with  us  the  blessed  Stranger  ! 

Come  adore  the  heavenly  Child 
Lying  in  the  humble  manger, 

Pure  and  undefiled  ! 


xrv 


Angels,  wondering,  hover  o'er  him; 

Costly  gifts  the  Magi  bring; 
And  the  rabbis  bow  before  him, 

Mutely  worshipping. 


125 


3fln 


XV 


And  his  gentle  virgin  mother 
Holds  him  closely  to  her  breast: 

On  the  earth  there  is  no  other 
Woman  half  so  blest. 


XVI 


Shepherds,  now  you  know  the  story 
Of  this  wondrous  Christmas  morn. 

Let  us  also  share  the  glory 
Of  the  King  new  born. 


FALLEN   PETALS 


o 


IN  the  ground  —  on  the  dewy  ground  — 
Lie  the  apple  blossoms  strewn  around. 

Yesterday  —  only  yesterday  — 

All  the  boughs  with  fragrant  blooms  were  gay. 

But  a  wind  —  a  dark  wind  —  arose, 
And  they  fell  —  drifting  like  the  snows. 

So  thy  heart,  with  hope's  petals  strewn, 
Misses  now  the  blossoms  thou  hast  known. 

Never  fear !     The  fruit  will  load  the  tree, 
And  Life's  autumn  bring  some  good  to  thee. 

126 


OFF  GLOUCESTER 

UPON  the  lifting  curve  of  the  sea 
The  fishing  fleet  drifts  dreamily, 
And  the  sky  looks  down  with  its  tenderest  smile; 
And  the  ocean,  forgetting  his  craft  awhile, 
Takes  the  ships  on  his  heaving  breast 
And  brings  them  into  the  port  of  rest. 


GLOWING  STARS 

TELL  me,  glowing  stars  on  high, 
Do  I  perish  when  I  die? 
Or  shall  I  be  ever  I? 

Will  my  spirit  have  re-birth 
And  regain  the  things  of  worth 
When  my  dust  returns  to  earth? 

Ye  too  perish,  ye  too  fall  : 
Flash  a  moment  —  then  the  pall  : 
Is  that  typical  of  all  ? 

Boundless  depths  of  glowing  spheres, 
Changeless  in  the  changing  years, 
Seem  to  neative  our  fears. 


127 


3Itt  spore  £>ertou0 


Yet  your  changeless  is  all  change  ! 
Fleeting,  flying  on,  ye  range 
Thro'  the  vortex  vast  and  strange. 

Other  creatures,  other  men, 
Cling  upon  you,  live  —  and  then 
Do  they  die  and  live  again? 


DISCOURAGEMENT 

SAID  the  glowworm:  "I, 
A  creature  of  fire, 
Cannot  touch  my  desire; 
However  I  yearn  and  try 
To  meet  and  greet 
My  winged  sisters  high 
In  the  sky  — 
I  can  only  burn  and  die !  " 

Said  the  firefly :  "  I, 
A  creature  of  light, 
Cannot  wing  my  flight 
Thro'  the  luring  night 
To  my  calmer  sisters  high 
In  the  sky ! 

128 


3!n  £pore  Serious?  £ 

I  can  only  fly 
Over  field  and  flower 
For  my  little  hour, 
And  die  like  a  sigh." 


Said  my  fervent  soul  : 

"I'm  a  creature  of  light  and  fire; 

But  why  —  why  should  I  aspire? 

For  ne'er  may  I  rise  higher 

Than  the  glowing  coal 

On  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  Death  is  my  goal  !  " 


"AS  YESTERDAY" 

A  SWEET  young  mother  fell  asleep  and  died : 
She  left  her  children  to  a  stranger's  care; 
Yet  scarcely  had  she  reached  the  other  side 

When  all  her  dear  ones  gathered  round  her  there. 

A  Spirit  saw  the  wonder  on  her  face :  — 

"They  lived  on  earth  their  rounded  lives,"  it  cried, 

"But   Heaven   knows  naught  of   measured  time  or 

space : — 
A  hundred  years  have  vanished  since  you  died !  " 

129 


spore  Serious? 

IN   THE   PARK 

THE  dry  leaves  rustle  on  the  ground 
With  weird,  mysterious,  whispering  sound. 
What  is  the  secret  that  they  tell? 
"  We  are  hapless  ghosts  of  leaves  that  fell 
From  bliss  remembered  all  too  well, 
And  now  by  winds  of  Fate  are  whirled 
Around  a  dead  and  frozen  world." 

MAN'S  TWO   WINGS 

(PARAPHRASED  FROM  De  Imitatione.') 

T  T  7HEN  life  seems  dreary, 
V  V      And  thou  art  weary 
Of  earthly  things  — 
If  then  thou  yearnest 
In  holy  earnest, 

For  what  peace  brings, 
Thou  mayst  soar  to  heaven 
On  pinions  given 
To  souls  like  thine : 
Simplicity 
And  purity 
Will  be  for  thee 
Those  wings  divine. 

130 


3|n  spore  £>mous  £pooa 


IF  WE  WERE   TO   DIE   TOGETHER 

IF  we  were  to  die  together 
Should  we  wander  hand  in  hand 
Thro'  the  dark  mysterious  gateway 
To  the  unseen  land? 

Should  we  comfort  one  another 
In  the  strangeness  of  the  way, 
Till  our  eyes  beheld  the  brightness 
Of  the  dawning  day? 

Were  it  so  my  heart  would  never 

Fail  me  at  the  thought  of  death. 
Never  would  a  pang  of  doubting 
Haunt  my  parting  breath. 

Life  or  death  with  thee  to  share  it 

Gives  no  room  for  fear  — 
I  were  blest  in  joy  or  sorrow  — 
Whether  there  or  here. 

THE   BROKEN   VOW 

THE  youthful  monk,  Aloysius, 
Knelt  alone  in  his  gloomy  cell, 
And  scourged  his  quivering  body 
As  the  shades  of  evening  fell. 
(He  heard  the  vesper  bell.) 


Jn  t^orr  srrurus 


A  s:Li~ n  ••'.-  lit  liii  ukt- 

To  renoonce  all  earthly  love, 
And  to  keep  his  heart  turned  ever 

To  the  Christ  on  the  cross  above. 
(O  Spirit  send  thy  Dore!) 

Bat  it  chanced  that  athwart  his  pathway 

A  beaotifal  woman  came, 
And  the  one  sweet  glance  that  she  gare  hii 

Hii  Et:  -E  :-eir: 
(The 


Iz  ;;::t  ::'  7:1;  e:  i-f  :is:i-r. 

Of  sackcloth  and  of  rod, 
The  vision  of  the  maiden 

Rose  ftwixt  him  and  his  God. 
(Thorny  the  path  he  trod:) 

"  ~  ~-"~_~ 


Of  monks  in  the  chapel  dim, 
Bat  the  secret  voice  within  him 
Is  loader  than  their  hymn. 

(His  eyes  with  hot  tears  swim.) 

P&ier  noster  rang  their  voices; 

red  his  sighs:  — 


"Bat  to  rest  on  the  maiden's  bosom 
Were  worth  all  Paradise  !" 

(The  inward  voice  replies.) 


132 


3In  £pore  Serious;  £f)oo& 

When  the  monks  next  morn  assembled, 

Aloysius  was  not  there; 
His  vow  to  God  he  had  broken  — 

He  had  fled  from  the  House  of  Prayer. 
(O  Love,  it  was  thy  snare !) 


THE   HARMONY  DIVINE 

Ovirore  dvar&v 
Tav  Aids  dp/jiovLav  dvSpuv  Tra.pe%1a.0-i 

Never  shall  the  plan  of  mortal  man  disturb  the  harmony  of 
Zeus.  —  AiSCHULOS :  Prometheus  Desmotes. 

HOWEVER  wrangling  men  may  war 
Or  jangling  discords  jar  and  mar 
God's  Symphony  eternal, 
A  law-engendered  purpose  runs 
Throughout  a  universe  of  suns, 
Each  with  its  song  supernal. 

The  Harmony  divine !  No  plan 
Conceived  by  heart  of  mortal  man 

Disturbs  its  progress  splendid. 
For  as  the  hurrying  years  revolve 
The  most  discordant  notes  dissolve 

In  triumph  never-ended. 

133 


3In  spore  £>mous? 


THE   HEART 

multa  'in  hoc  mundo  sunt  et  haec  omnia  cor  humanum  satiare 
non  possunt.  —  HUGO  DE  ST.  VICTOR. 

THE  world  is  a  kingdom  of  beautiful  things; 
Yet  possession  of  wealth  only  fosters  the  pride  ! 
No  lasting  content  it  brings  even  to  kings; 
By  heaven  alone  is  the  heart  satisfied. 


ON  A   PICTURE   OF   SUNSET   IN   THE  ADI- 
RONDACKS 

ON  mountain  summits  and  on  clouds  is  glowing 
The  glory  of  the  sunset;  in  the  valley 
The  waveless  waters  of  the  river  dally, 
And  shadows  darker  and  more  deep  are  growing. 

Hushed  are  the  winds;  the  tall  elms  bending 
Above  the  glassy  stream  are  motionless 
As  if  entranced  at  their  own  loveliness, 

With  dreamy  colors  in  the  cool  depths  blending. 

There  is  no  sound;  the  robins  ceased  their  song 

As  sunset  slowly  faded  from  the  sky; 

Music  and  joyousness  to  day  belong  — 
'T  is  fitting  that  in  silence  day  should  die. 

134 


3|n  spore  g>mou$ 
PEACE 

In  la  sua  voluntade  e  nostra  pace,  —  PARADISO,  III,  85. 

T)EACE?     Can  we  find  it  in  this  world  of  trial, 
±_       Where  battles  fierce  and  every  form  of  ill 
And  pain  and  sorrow  and  hard  self-denial 

Our  checkered  lives  from  birth  to  death  must  fill? 

Peace  ?     Peace  ?     How  sweet  the  word  and  tender ! 

Its  very  sound  should  wrangling  discords  still ! 
And  I  might  find  it  if  I  would  surrender 

Myself  and  my  will  to  His  perfect  will. 


AT  MIDNIGHT   BY  THE   SEA 

WE  sat  at  midnight  on  the  shore, 
The  waves  were  breaking  at  our  feet 
With  solemn,  low,  continuous  roar, — 
The  red  lights  on  the  fishing  fleet 
Rocked  to  and  fro  against  the  sky. 

We  saw  the  mist-wreaths  hurrying  by, 
Like  loving  things  compelled  by  Fate 
To  seek  some  distant,  unknown  state; 
The  moon  shone  on  the  waters  far, 
And  o'er  the  golden  waste  a  bar 

135 


2f|n  spore  Serious? 


Of  shadow  of  deep  purple  lay; 

The  offing  was  a  silvery  gray, 

From  which  the  black-backed  islands  rose 

Like  ocean  monsters  in  repose. 

Alas,  alas  !  no  words  can  tell 
The  sadness  which  upon  us  fell; 
No  trick  of  rhyme  can  half  express 
The  tearful,  melancholy  mood 
Born  of  the  boundless  solitude. 
The  marbled  sky  seemed  pitiless; 
The  sad  waves  breaking  on  the  shore 
Were  moaning  for  the  nevermore  — 
The  awful  unattainable  — 
As  down  the  rocks  the  slow  tide  fell. 
The  mist-veil  seemed  to  shut  from  sight 
Some  deeper  mystery  of  the  night; 
The  very  light  the  white  moon  gave 
Made  shadows  deeper  on  shore  and  wave. 

I  have  seen  times  when  inner  sight 
Seemed  opened  on  the  infinite, 
As  if  the  flower  of  God's  great  plan 
Were  slowly  blossoming  for  man, 
So  that  my  soul  began  to  see 
Some  clew  unto  the  mystery 
Of  what  it  really  means  to  be. 


136 


3(ln 


Not  so  that  night.     The  darkness  drew 

Like  mist  about  my  soul.     I  felt 

That  there  was  nothing  that  I  knew. 

My  soul  within  me  seemed  to  melt  ! 

Thus  by  the  shore  we  walked  —  \ve  two, 

As  slow  the  mystic  hour  crept  on 

And  the  tide  turned  and  the  moon  was  gone. 


THE   ABBA'S   DREAM 

THE  Abbe"  Michael  dreamed  one  night 
That  heaven  was  opened  to  his  sight, 
And  first  among  the  radiant  throng 
Which  filled  the  streets  with  praise  and  song 
He  saw  a  man  whose  reckless  might 

Had  seamed  his  earthly  life  with  wrong. 

The  Abb£  saw  not  streets  of  gold, 

Or  splendid  mansions  manifold, 
Or  sea  of  glass,  or  jewels  rare, 
Or  pearly  gates  beyond  compare, 

Or  hosts  of  angels  richly  stoled;  — 
He  only  saw  this  sinner  there ! 


The  hymns  of  triumph  reached  his  ears, 
But  brought  no  solace  for  his  tears; 


137 


3In  ^ore  Serious? 


Peace  from  his  jealous  soul  had  flown:- 
"My  life  is  spent  for  God  alone," 
He  cried;  "and  yet  this  man  appears 
Among  the  nearest  to  the  throne." 

But  ere  he  woke  he  heard  a  voice, 
Which  said  unto  his  heart:  "Rejoice! 
The  diamond  which  is  full  of  light 
Was  once  a  coal  as  black  as  night  ! 
Judge  not  the  means  which  God  employs 
To  make  the  wrong  bloom  into  right." 


THE   DEATH   OF   AVRAHAM 

HURMAZD  !     Almighty  Lord  / 
A  flying  rumor  said 
That  Avraham  was  dead :  — 
Drawn  from  the  scabbard  's  the  sword; 
Loosed  from  the  bow  is  the  cord; 
The  wine  from  the  pitcher  is  poured; 
The  casket  loses  its  hoard. 

Thus,  yet  not  thus,  from  man, 
When  he  has  finished  his  span, 
Falls  neglected,  despised, 
The  body  he  long  has  prized. 

138 


3|n  spore  £>mous  £|3oo& 

It  crumbles  into  dust :  — 
Consumed  is  the  scabbard  by  rust; 
The  bow  is  broken  for  fire; 
The  pitcher  is  lost  in  the  mire; 
The  casket  is  tost  in  the  brier. 

Hurmazd !     Almighty  Lord  ! 
The  flying  rumor  said 
That  Avraham  was  dead. 

Hearken  the  Mage's  word! 
Solemnly  spake  the  sage, 
Bent  low  by  thought  and  by  age :  — 
I  watched  as  Avraham 's  soul 
Passed  from  his  body's  control. 

Asks  an  eager  fool  of  the  wise :  — 

"  What  was  its  form  as  it  fled 

And  joined  the  hosts  of  the  dead?  " 

The  master,  unruffled,  replies :  — 

"  Form  it  had  none.     When  you  said, 

Days  agone,  'Lo,  here  is  our  friend,' 
You  thought  not  of  mouth  or  of  eyes, 
Of  hair,  of  color,  of  size, — 

So  now  it  was  at  the  end, 
(The  end  of  suffering,  sinning, 
But  death  is  new  life  beginning !) 

139 


Kin  spot*  £>ertou$ 


"As  the  formless  form  of  the  soul 
Of  Avraham  drew  near  the  goal 
To  which  thro'  life  he  had  aimed 
('Zadeehah,'  the  Just  ',  was  he  named), 
A  breeze  with  fragrance  laden 
Breathed  from  the  robes  of  a  maiden 
Stately  and  gracious  and  fair, 
Who  came  to  welcome  him  there. 

"  She  was  the  soul  of  his  deeds, 
His  charities,  faithfulness,  prayer, 

Self-sacrifice,  meekness,  and  love  : 
The  growth  of  a  thousand  seeds, 
For  all  that  is  best  in  us  breeds 

Greater  perfection  above, 
But  the  bad  destroys  as  it  feeds, 
Like  canker  or  ruthless  decay. 

"Then  the  maiden  led  him  away, 
As  a  father  is  led  by  a  daughter, 

Thro'  pleasant  asphodel  meads, 
By  fountains  of  life-giving  water, 

To  the  grove  of  Hurmazd  the  Great. 

"  '  Well  done  !    Thou  hast  won  in  the  strife  ! 
New  joy  now  begins  and  new  life, 


140 


£poo& 


My  son  !  '  was  the  welcoming  word 
That  the  wondering  Avraham  heard 
As  he  bowed  in  the  presence  of  Fate." 


r 


PROPHETS 

(To  THE  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.) 

'N  every  age  have  men  been  sent 
To  be  a  nation's  ornament, — 
To  bring  the  Graces  down  to  earth, 
To  sing  new  songs  of  love  and  mirth, 
To  make  the  pictured  canvas  glow, 
To  bid  full  streams  of  music  flow, 
To  shape  dead  marble  into  life, 
To  lead  vast  hosts  from  strife  to  strife. 
The  annals  of  the  world  abound 
With  lives  which  deathless  fame  has  crowned. 
But  while  each  age,  each  nation  claims 
Its  noble  roll  of  splendid  names, 
Once  in  a  century  appears 
The  flaming  torch  of  God-sent  seers, 
As  comets  fling  their  threatening  blaze 
Athwart  the  fixed  stars'  silvery  rays. 


When  tyrannies  oppress  a  land, 
When  crimes  abound  on  every  hand, 


141 


3in  spore  g>mous? 


When  righteous  laws  in  the  dust  are  trod, 
When  men  forget  that  God  is  God,  — 
Then  with  his  whip  of  scorpion  stings, 
The  prophet  his  stern  message  brings; 
To  pride,  so  soon  to  be  brought  low, 
Foretells  the  coming  of  the  woe; 
Awakes  the  conscience,  lulled  to  sleep, 
With  thunders  snatched  from  Sinai's  steep. 
To  seers  like  these  mere  beauty  seems 
Like  forms  and  colors  seen  in  dreams  : 
Rich  houses,  bright  and  comely  dress, 
The  dainty  fare  of  palaces, 
The  vaunted  triumphs  of  the  arts, 
The  traffic  of  the  crowded  marts, 
Are  false  enticements  to  be  spurned, 
Are  tinsel  dross  that  must  be  burned. 
And  so  they  come  in  camel's  hair, 
With  locusts  for  their  homely  fare; 
And  in  the  market-place  they  stand 
And  preach  destruction  to  the  land  : 
"  Repent  !  repent  !  "  they  loudly  cry, 
"The  judgment  of  the  Lord  is  nigh!  " 
The  heedless  mob  refuse  to  hear, 
The  triflers  jest,  the  cruel  jeer; 
And  soon  the  hurtling  stones  are  flung 
To  still  the  inconvenient  tongue. 
"  My  prophets,  O  Jerusalem, 

142 


Where  are  they  ?    Ye  have  stoned  them ! ' 
But,  tho'  the  prophet  sinks  in  death, 
The  Lord's  word  never  perisheth. 
The  fated  doom  leaps  forth  at  last; 
And  when  its  awful  work  is  past, 
The  prophet,  who  its  course  foretold, 
On  whom  the  fathers'  sins  were  rolled, 
Is  by  their  children's  children  named 
As  one  in  whom  God's  voice  had  flamed. 


A   LEGEND   OF   ST.  ANTHONY 

ST.  ANTHONY  had  fasted  much  and  prayed,— 
Had  spent  long  years  in  desert  lands  alone, 
Afflicting  his  lean  limbs  with  punishments 
For  evil  thoughts  that  came  against  his  will; 
Forever  watching  for  the  slightest  stain 
That  might  appear  upon  the  shining  gold 
Of  his  pure  life,  that  at  the  latter  day, 
When  he  must  render  it  unto  his  Lord, 
He  might  receive  his  Lord's  most  grateful  praise. 

And  now  he  was  grown  old  and  sorely  bent; 
His  frame  was  feeble  and  his  eyes  were  dim, 
His  long  hair  and  his  beard  were  white  as  wool. 
And  as  he  sat  before  his  hermitage 

143 


spore  Serious? 


At  eventide,  and  saw  the  red  sun  sink 
Behind  great  masses  of  dark  purple  clouds, 
Down  in  a  sea  of  sand,  the  glad  thought  came 
That  soon  his  pilgrimage  below  would  close, 
Soon  would  his  sun  go  down  in  clouds  of  glory. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  and  spoke  in  prayer  : 
"Lord,  I  have  lived  apart  from  sinful  men; 
I  have  not  soiled  my  life  by  intercourse 
With  filthy  pleasures  which  the  bad  world  loves. 
To  prayer  and  fasting  have  my  days  been  given, 
My  nights  to  penance  for  e'en  thought  of  sin. 
Temptations  have  I  struggled  with,  oh  Lord, 
But  never  have  I  fallen,  no,  not  once. 
When  Satan  came  with  all-alluring  wiles 
I  yielded  not,  nor  have  I  ceased  to  fight 
His  open  warfare,  till  at  last  I  stand 
Triumphant  in  my  hard-earned  victory. 
What  more  remaineth  now  for  me  to  do  ? 
Am  I  not  holy  more  than  other  men? 
Am  I  not  ripe  to  garner  into  heaven  ? 
I  pray  thee  let  my  long  probation  cease, 
Now,  Lord,  I  pray  thee,  take  thy  servant  home." 

When  he  had  ceased,  a  gentle  voice  replied: 
"  Nay,  Anthony,  in  Alexandria, 
A  cobbler,  Paulus,  lives,  who  has  more  cause 

144 


3In  spore  £>mou$  spool) 

For  boasting  of  his  holiness  than  thou." 
He  marvelled  at  these  words  and  pondered  long. 
The  night  he  spent  in  scourging  his  poor  flesh 
Until  the  blood  flowed  down  his  trembling  limbs. 
And  ere  the  sun  rose  from  the  ruddy  east, 
St.  Anthony  had  grasped  his  oaken  staff, 
And  wandering  thro'  the  weary  wastes  of  sand 
He  sought  the  city,  Alexandria. 

At  length,  when  many  days  and  nights  were  past, 
Before  a  lowly  cottage  door  he  stood, 
And  gained  admittance  to  the  humble  room 
Where  dwelt  the  cobbler  with  his  family. 

"  I  come  to  see  a  man  who  has  more  cause 
To  boast  of  holiness  than  Anthony; 
Now  show  me  thy  good  works,  that  I  may  judge, 
And  if  convinced,  though  old,  may  learn  of  thee." 

The  cobbler,  Paulus,  answered  in  surprise : 
"Nay,  I  have  done  no  good  works  that  I  know; 
I  live  contented  in  my  poverty. 
My  hands  I  strive  to  keep  from  idleness. 
I  teach  my  children  to  be  truly  kind, 
And  bring  them  up  to  love  their  father's  God. 
I  gather  them  about  me  when  I  pray. 
But  as  for  'good  works,'  nay,  I  have  done  none." 

145 


3fln  spore  g>mou$ 


Then  Anthony  was  sore  amazed,  and  prayed  : 
"  Oh  Lord,  expound  to  me  this  parable. 
How  is  this  cobbler  holier  than  I, 
Who  have  lived  sinless  all  my  ninety  years, 
And  uncontaminated  by  the  world?  " 

Then  suddenly  the  scales  fell  from  his  eyes; 
He  saw  how  he  had  lived  in  selfishness, 
How  cowardly  it  was  to  leave  the  world 
And  spend  his  long  life  on  himself  alone. 
And  Paradise  seemed  far  away  from  him 
Who  late  had  prayed  his  Lord  to  take  him  home. 
His  life  seemed  wasted,  and  he  wept  aloud. 
Then  had  the  Lord  compassion  on  the  saint, 
And  speedily  He  took  him  to  his  rest  — 
His  aged  saint,  who  at  the  end  of  life 
Had  learned  the  lesson  of  humility. 


AN   AUTUMN   FRUIT 

OUR  good  old  dominie  was  fond  of  flowers. 
It  was  because  his  life  was  beautiful, 
I  think,  that  nothing  that  had  beauty  failed 
To  touch  him  and  to  make  his  soul  respond. 
And  so,  because  I  could  not  do  great  things, 
Nor  bear  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 

146 


By  working  in  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord, 

On  peaceful  Sabbath  mornings,  when  the  dew 

Still  sparkled  on  the  bending  blades  of  grass, 

And  made  me  think  of  jewelled  scimetars, 

Wielded  by  fairies  in  Titania's  court, 

I  cut  the  sweetest  blossoms  I  could  find  — 

Red  roses,  clambering  up  the  trellised  wall, 

And  pinks  from  out  my  little  garden  plot, 

And  bright-eyed  pansies,  gentians,  violets, 

And  sometimes  modest  wild  flowers  from  the  wood, 

Which,  cool  and  shady,  climbed  the  village  hill. 

From  springtime,  when  the  wild  arbutus  came 

(Brave  little  beauty  hiding  'neath  the  snows), 

Thro'  the  long  summer  till  the  violets  died, 

And  when  the  pine-o'ershadowed  river  banks 

Grew  purple  with  proud  harebells,  and  the  fields 

Were  thick  with  royal  hosts  of  goldenrod  — 

Each  Sunday  morn  I  brought  my  offering 

And  laid  it  on  the  altar  in  the  church. 

And  when  our  dear  old  dominie  would  come  — 

I  see  his  white  hair  and  his  mild  eyes  yet  — 

And  linger  for  a  moment  just  to  catch 

The  delicate  breath  of  heliotrope  or  rose, 

I  saw  the  peaceful  look  of  thanks  to  God 

For  sending  such  sweet  things  into  the  world, 

And  had  my  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

And  one  day,  when  a  little  child  was  brought 

147 


For  holy  hands  to  consecrate  to  God, 

She  leaned  out  from  her  mother's  arms  and  took 

A  single  pearl-like  lily  from  the  vase  — 

Herself  a  lily  blooming  into  life; 

And  then  a  tiny  bird  came  with  the  breeze 

In  thro'  the  window,  and  upon  my  flowers 

It  lighted  like  a  blessing  sent  from  God. 

But  now  the  birds  have  gone  to  warmer  climes, 

And  sing  their  matin  songs  on  orange  trees; 

The  goldenrod  has  faded  from  the  field, 

And  from  the  boughs  the  chill  wind  shakes  the  leaves. 

O  glorious  fruit  of  autumn  —  red-ripe  corn, 

And  bending  barley,  heavy-headed  wheat, 

And  russet  apples,  chestnuts  with  the  burrs 

Half  opened  by  the  fingers  of  the  frost ! 

0  glorious  days  of  autumn,  when  the  sun 
Swims  in  a  golden  haze,  and  o'er  the  hills 
The  grass  is  slowly  changing  ruddy  brown ! 

1  went  among  the  fields  and  thro'  the  woods, 
And  plucked  a  dozen  ears  of  full-ripe  corn; 
I  filled  a  basket  full  of  forest  leaves, 
Glowing  with  all  of  sunset's  richest  hues, 
And  red-leaved  boughs  of  oak,  with  acorn  cups 
And  stalks  of  grasses  with  their  yellow  seeds, 
And  ferns  from  hollows  by  the  brooklet's  side  — 
And  bound  the  wheat  and  heavy  heads  of  rye, 
And  all  the  grains  that  bounteous  autumn  gives. 

148 


31n  spore  g>erious? 


And  so  I  made  an  offering  for  the  Lord, 

And  laid  it  on  his  altar  in  his  church. 

And  when  the  Sabbath  came,  my  heart  was  full. 

How  calm  the  river  lay  beneath  the  banks, 

With  grazing  cows  and  vine-clad  cottages 

Reflected  in  the  mirror  of  its  tide  ! 

No  breeze  stirred  in  the  tree-tops;  yet  the  leaves 

Came  fluttering  downward  one  by  one.     The  boys 

Walked  thro'  them  with  the  keen  delight  of  youth 

In  crisp,  sharp  sound,  and  longed  to  run  and  shout. 

How  mournfully  the  bell  was  tolled  that  morn, 

As  if  it  felt  the  prescience  of  some  grief  ! 

Oh,  what  a  prayer  went  winging  up  to  God, 

As  if  the  good  old  man,  like  Moses,  stood 

Upon  a  Pisgah  height,  and  talked  with  him, 

And  brought  his  people's  sorrows  and  their  joys 

And  laid  them  calmly  at  their  Father's  feet! 

And  then  his  sermon  —  ah,  it  seems  to  me 

As  if  I  ne'er  should  hear  his  like  again! 

It  was  his  last.     For  ere  the  sun  was  set 

The  Reaper  with  his  sickle  keen  had  come 

And  garnered  him  as  grain  full  ripe  for  God. 


149 


3fln  spore  Serious? 

THE   HEROES   OF  CUTTYHUNK 

[The  British  brig  Aquatic  from  Cuba,  bound  for  Boston, 
went  ashore  on  the  Sow  and  Pigs  Reef  off  Cuttyhunk  about 
half-past  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  Friday,  Feb.  24,  1893. 
The  United  States  Life-saving  Crew  deemed  the  exploit  of  rescue 
too  dangerous  to  attempt  in  the  hurricane  that  was  blowing  and 
the  high  sea  that  was  running.  But  a  volunteer  crew  of  six 
men  —  Captain  Timothy  Akin,  Jr.,  Frederick  Akin,  Isaiah  H. 
Tilton,  Joseph  Tilton,  William  Brightman,  and  Hiram  Jackson  — 
attempted  to  put  out  to  the  wreck  in  the  Massachusetts  Humane 
Society's  life-boat.  They  had  gone  only  a  short  distance  when 
they  were  swamped,  and  five  of  the  men  were  drowned.  Their 
families  were  left  in  the  direst  poverty,  and  immediate  steps  were 
taken  in  Boston  and  other  cities  to  relieve  their  necessities  and 
provide  for  their  future.  Universal  sympathy  was  aroused,  and 
the  fund  quickly  amounted  to  over  fifteen  thousand  dollars.] 

EN !  there's  a  brig  ashore  on  the  reef: 

Come,  bear  a  hand  for  their  relief ! 
The  Life-saving  Crew  have  turned  back, 
For  the  wind  is  fierce  and  the  billows  are  black ! 
But  we  can  get  there,  never  fear ! 
Who  of  you  men  will  volunteer?  " 

Thus  spoke  a  seaman,  bronzed  and  brave, 
Ready  and  strong  to  do  and  save. 
Five  fishermen  shouted  their  "  I,"  "and  I  " :  — 
Who  of  them  thought  or  feared  to  die  ? 

150 


31n  spore 


They  followed  their  leader  down  to  the  shore 

To  enrich  the  world  with  one  gallant  deed  more. 

Parents'  and  children's  and  loving  wives' 

Joy  and  sorrow,  hung  on  those  lives; 

But  tho'  love  for  mother  or  wife  or  child 

Might  beckon  them  back  from  the  tempest  wild, 

Yet  still  with  faces  set  and  stern, 

To  Humanity's  task  they  gallantly  turn. 

No  time  for  farewells  :  no  parting  word 

Thro'  the  roar  of  the  hurricane  surf  would  be  heard; 

In  silence  they  launch  the  great  life-boat: 

It  glides  down  the  shelving  beach,  is  afloat  ! 

With  sturdy  arms  they  stand  to  the  oars 

Nor  heed  the  cold  billow  that  over  them  pours. 

They  are  off  !  they  are  off  !  thro'  the  threatening  comb, 

Strong  as  Fate,  white-crested  with  foam 

That  hides  them  from  sight,  that  blinds  them,  that 

strives 

To  swallow  up  their  puny  lives  ! 
Again  they  rise,  they  conquer;  the  skill 
Of  man  with  the  aid  of  his  dormant  will 
Master  the  frenzied  seas  which  roar 
With  baffled  rage  on  the  ice-bound  shore. 
Again  and  again  they  rise,  they  sink 
In  green-black  hollows  which  seem  to  shrink 
Under  the  mass  of  the  toppling  wave 
That  covers  the  yawning  of  the  grave  ! 


3fln  spore  Serious? 


And  the  wind  adds  his  fury  to  ocean's  might. 
Great  God  !  how  it  shrieks  in  its  swooping  flight  ! 
Against  such  allies  man's  strength  is  vain: 
With  their  utmost  force  no  inch  they  gain. 
Up,  up  they  mount;  the  crested  wall 
Of  solid  green  once  more  may  fall 
And  still  they  live;  see!  see!  they  bend 
With  strokes  of  iron;  must  they  spend 
Their  manhood's  might  and  still  not  save 
Those  nameless  strangers  from  the  grave? 

One  false  stroke  is  their  doom;  if  caught 
By  yonder  toppling  mountain,  naught 
Beneath  the  pitiless  sky  can  help 
Those  hapless  heroes  flung  like  kelp 
Amid  the  weltering  waste  of  brine 
That  stretches  beyond  the  horizon  line  ! 

There  's  a  glare  of  sunset  in  the  west, 
But  the  howling  tempest  knows  no  rest, 
And  now  like  a  horrible  harpy  the  wind 
With  a  sudden  swoop  comes  from  behind. 
With  his  grasp  like  steel  the  captain  is  true 
To  instinctive  swerve;  the  hardy  crew 
Make  one  last  effort  :  but  they  are  lost  !  — 
Like  a  feather  the  life-boat  is  lightly  tost 
On  the  edge  of  that  monstrous  shuddering  wave, 
Then  swallowed  up  in  its  curling  cave. 

152 


3!n 


And  still  on  the  reef  the  wrecked  brig  hung, 

Still  the  freezing  crew  to  the  rigging  clung 

While  the  doomed  ship  strained,  while  the  timbers 

crackt 

Beneath  each  breaker's  cataract, 
And  every  moment  seemed  their  last; 
But  when  the  terrible  night  was  past 
Every  man  was  safely  landed 
From  the  rocky  sty  where  they  had  stranded. 
For  the  sea  had  accepted  the  sacrifice  : 
Five  gallant  lives  were  the  costly  price. 

Death  is  the  portion  of  mortals  all  : 
Sooner  or  later  it  must  befall, 
And  whether  it  comes  by  sea  or  land 
Makes  little  odds  as  the  world  is  planned. 
'T  is  a  moment's  anguish  and  then  release  ! 
An  instant's  warfare  followed  by  peace! 
But  alas  for  those  who  are  suddenly  left  : 
Of  father  or  husband  or  lover  bereft, 
With  poverty  staring  them  in  the  face, 
With  none  to  take  the  bread-winner's  place. 

Ah  !  but  the  world  loves  heroes  !     Now 
Is  the  chance  for  the  world  its  love  to  show! 
"  Come  to  the  rescue  !     Pour  your  gold  ! 
Prove  that  the  world's  heart  is  not  cold! 

153 


31n  spore  g>eriou$ 


One  of  those  men  who  went  straight  to  heaven 

Left  seven  children  —  a  motherless  seven  ! 

Give  of  thy  wealth  that  never  need 

Of  home  or  bread  make  their  young  hearts  bleed!  " 

Thus  rang  the  appeal  and  the  answer  glowed 
And  the  saving  tide  of  sympathy  flowed  ! 
Now  once  again  we  have  seen  defeat 
Crowned  with  victory  lofty  and  sweet; 
And  tho'  that  boat  and  crew  were  sunk 
'Neath  the  waves  that  environed  Cuttyhunk, 
The  wreck  of  that  vessel  raised  on  high 
A  deed  of  worth  that  shall  never  die  ! 


154 


VC1S9238 


M189008 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


